


Washing Away What Remained

by SupposedToBeWriting



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Coping, Entire CW for Work: Discussions about addiction-like behavior, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set Post S5, Spoilers up to MAG190, post-S5 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting
Summary: Jon woke up in an alley one day with no memory and a very dark secret. He nevertheless tries to cope and live a relatively normal life, until he meets one Martin Blackwood: a fellow amnesiac that never removes his gloves. Jon falls for him immediately. As their relationship progresses, however, Jon realizes that Martin may have a dark secret of his own - one that might be the key to unlocking his own past. Jon decides he has to investigate, no matter the cost.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 57
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Mentions of Alzheimers/memory loss in elderly, mentions of murder

Jon stood in his bedroom with his hands on his hips, staring critically at two sweaters lying on the bed. His gaze hardened as if trying to suss out some unknown truth from the wool. They were virtually identical in everything except for color, one being forest green and the other a royal purple. He’d narrowed it down to these two. The weather and venue demanded something warm, the infuriating need to be liked demanded something at least semi-presentable. Unfortunately, Jon had no idea whether green or purple suited him more, had no scientific way to check, and this was certain to drive him utterly insane.

What was the point of being liked, anyway? It wasn’t like he was going to stop in his tracks, point at Jon’s sweater, and confess love on the spot. Purple and green wouldn’t change a goddamn thing, and if it did, then Jon wouldn’t want any part of him anyway. And so what if he didn’t _like_ him? Jonathan Sims was a thirty-odd _-_ years-old man, anyway! He didn’t need the affection and feelings for a man that he barely met! He was self-sufficient! And perhaps he’d _rather_ be on his own, regardless! It was _easier_ to be alone, than to have to go through this at every social outing, pouring over whether he’d prefer purple or green like it mattered at all in the grand scheme of things! _People_ were dying, somewhere, and here this man was making Jon worry about purple or green, green or purple, and –

Jon caught sight of himself in the mirror. “Oh, good _Lord,”_ he whispered in aggravation to himself, reaching up to pinch the edge of his nose.

Nerves. Nerves, that was all it was. When Jon got nervy, his temper flared. And that was the last thing he needed, walking into dinner because he’d managed to get himself in a bad mood. He reached for the green sweater and slid it on, the wool soft and comfortable against his skin.

Dating was impossible. Truly. The sweater looked goddamn _fine._

It wasn’t even _dating,_ not yet, which was far more daunting to consider. They were just _going out._ The difference was gigantic and minuscule simultaneously. Things wouldn’t change except in the most surface-level of ways if they _were_ dating, of course, but then again the ‘dating’ label would slap on certain expectations and the possibility of progression. People were _dating,_ then six months later they were moving in together, and then two years later they were marrying, and then Jon would have to share breathing space with someone until he died.

Then again, he had spent enough time with him to know that Martin wasn’t like that.

Martin, for what it was worth, just seemed pleased to have company. While that didn’t exactly speak in support of _romantic interest,_ Martin didn’t push or remark on the state of their relationship. Martin did not ask _what are we?_ While that soothed Jon’s anxiety considerably, it also left things up to him to ask what, exactly, they were.

Which he would. Eventually. When things were right. When the planets aligned, so to speak. The planets hadn’t aligned on their last “date”, nor the one before. Jon tried to coach himself, to say that things would be _considerably_ more relaxed once he asked that question, and he could enjoy Martin’s company fully, but that was always approximately twenty seconds before his brain chimed in with the worst-case scenario.

Jon’s mind could never agree on that _was,_ precisely. Sometimes Martin’s face would contort into something shy and uncomfortable, slamming right back into that shell Jon had brought him out of. Sometimes Martin would turn him down flat. Sometimes Martin would be straight. Sometimes Martin would make an excuse that he had to go and Jon would never hear from him again. The last one was more common and uniquely devastating, because that would entail Jon losing the first man that he could ever really _connect_ to.

Granted, that wasn’t saying much. He’d met far fewer people than the average person.

About ten months ago, Jonathan Sims had woke up in an alleyway. Disoriented and frightened, he had immediately run into oncoming traffic. In his defense, London had a lot of it.

Nothing had hit him, thankfully, saved by the gridlock that was London rush hour. Some kind Samaritan had gotten out of their car and gotten him to hospital. It was only then, in a bed with a doctor standing next to him, that Jon realized he couldn’t give the doctor his name. His age. Every single bit of information about himself, his memories, where he had been, had been yanked from his head.

He’d hyperventilated.

Of course he had. It was profoundly terrifying, not knowing who one was. He could still read and write, could still recall most of the books that he read, could recall who the prime minister was and the country they were in and even the name of the hospital. But as for his address, who he voted for, and whether he had ever been here before: no clue. It was like anything with his identity or personhood attached was simply carved out of him.

Thankfully, a worker at the hospital had recognized him from before.

As to be expected, there were a battery of medical tests to be performed on a heavily scarred man who couldn’t remember an iota of his own history. It was just after he’d gotten an X-ray done of his chest to explain the strange _soft_ part of his ribcage. Frankly, the first comparison that popped into his head was that it was akin to the soft spot on a baby’s head. Jon didn’t like that idea. Not at all.

Nor did he like the way the X-ray tech _squinted_ at the scan of his chest.

Apparently, he was missing two ribs. The X-ray had informed him of that in an accusing tone, like Jon was meant to apologize and say he’d left them at home.

The injury had been usual enough to trigger the memory of a nurse at the hospital of the strange man who had come in with two cleanly missing ribs.

And so, a name (and medical record) were given. Jonathan Sims. Admitted multiple times to this very hospital over the years with some very grotesque trauma. Notes were given about the wound on his neck, the wound on his shoulder, the various wounds on his leg and face, his burned hand, and, of course – the two missing ribs. Hell, his medical record didn’t even account for all the wounds on his body, there were a few nasty looking ones on his torso that didn’t seem to be documented at all.

None of it rang a bell. And, really, Jon was almost glad that it didn’t.

The other bits he would’ve cared to know, though.

His birth date was written down in his medical file, putting him at a measly 33. Before then, Jon would have sworn up and down that he was in his late forties, if not older. His knees alone had to have been eighty. He still wasn’t sure whether he believed that, but who would lie about their age on a medical form?

He’d spent more time than he wanted in the hospital and got half a dozen prescriptions for his trouble and a recommendation for a _really_ good therapist. The way the doctor had stressed it, a _really_ good therapist, had the undertone implication of: _you’re gonna need one, mate._

Probably not that far out there, honestly.

That had all been ten months ago. In the meanwhile, he’d gotten a job shelving books at the local library. A deep Google dive of himself had turned up a literature degree from Oxford University. With honors, too, that was something. That made sense, given his knowledge of books, but for what Jon had learned there specifically … he hadn’t a clue. Still, the paper proof of his degree existed.

Identification cards had been replaced. He’d gotten access to his bank accounts and gotten other copies of his cards. Bizarrely, a decent amount of money was placed in his account every other Friday. A paycheck, to be certain, and not from the library he worked at. That particular lead had fizzled out. The name of the transfer was too vague to track anything down and the bank refused to tell him what account they were wiring from.

So Jon had left it alone. After all, who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

He crossed from the bedroom into the living room. According to the listing he’d gotten this flat from, it’d been “cozy” and “efficient”. Which, of course, were massive red flags. But small and utilitarian suited Jon’s needs just fine. As became swiftly apparent, Jon didn’t much have the attention span for television (books, however, were practically invaluable), didn’t enjoy decorating, and didn’t need much kitchen space. One pot and one pan, thank you, he was no Gordon Ramsay.

Most of one wall of his living room was taken up by a large rotating cork board on wheels, like an exhibit wall in a procedural drama. Jon had pinned several dozen notes and pictures there. They all related to information about his life. The degree from Oxford was on there. “Don’t like pesto”, underlined several times. Photocopies of his parents’ and grandmother’s death certificates. “No criminal record?” Every photo that he could find of himself on the Internet. On a dusty pinned index card, Jon had written and underlined: “Friends??? Loved ones???” A noticeable empty space surrounded it.

Frankly, it looked obsessive. It looked like he was stalking someone. And he supposed, in a way, he was.

He hadn’t expected to have many people over, which is why he didn’t mind his evidence wall taking up most of the section where people would keep a television or a fireplace. He barely spoke with his coworkers (they certainly didn’t know that he was a card-carrying amnesiac) and certainly didn’t have the patience to meet people online. It didn’t bother him like he thought it would. It bothered … regular people, didn’t it? Being alone?

Until, of course, he’d met Martin Blackwood.

His therapist had recommended a support group. Not that Jon wasn’t doing _excellently,_ she promised, but because it might do good to share his unusual experiences with others. Jon didn’t much like the idea at first, because who could begin to understand what he had been through?

Apparently, there was a support group for those with memory issues. Jon had been flabbergasted and signed up immediately. A rare seed of hope bloomed within him. Perhaps this strange illness, more suited for a soap opera than reality where things were messy and inconvenient (people in soap operas didn’t have to go to court to prove they’d been born), was more common than he previously thought. He could find people who understood him there. Advice for things that Jon still had no clue how to manage: how to find past leases for flats that might’ve been in his name? How to determine life-threatening allergies? How to figure out _who_ was putting that bloody money in his account like he did a job?

Of course, if Jon had thought about it for more than five minutes, he would have realized that the people at the support group would be of little help.

He hadn’t thought it through in his excitement, but _of course_ most memory issues were gradual. Very few people had sudden, total memory loss – particularly with no head injuries to speak of. It was a condition that was found much more commonly on television than in real life after all. The doctors had been unable to explain it, but Jon thought that he would perhaps find a sort of kinship here.

Most of them were early stage dementia or Alzheimer’s patients, all of them at least twice Jon’s age. Their stories were devastating, forgetting seemingly innocuous details and holding immense fear with what was to come. Jon could see it in their eyes, the way they fidgeted with wedding rings, purses, shirt buttons. Others chimed in with words of support, empathy, and understanding. Loads of people started to cry.

All of it summed up? Depressing, and made Jon feel like an outside observer more than an active participant in group therapy session.

Until someone had come in the door. A young man with short, wavy hair had literally stuck his head through the doorway. “Sorry,” he asked, looking genuinely timid. “Is this the support group for people with memory issues?”

“It is!” Jon had blurted out with more volume and eagerness than he’d _really_ wanted to. But he was so relieved to have someone even vaguely in his age range here. “It _absolutely_ is. There’s a seat open next to me, come on in.”

Even if they hadn’t shared any more words than that, Jon nevertheless was cheered by the presence of an ally. Perched awkwardly in a squeaky folding chair, this man understood his uniquely awkward position.

But of course, _clearly_ he was coping better than Jon was. He was murmuring words of support, genuine and heartfelt: _oh, Mrs. Wilkins, your daughter sounds like a brilliant young woman. You’ve done such a good job with her._ Like he’d known these people for years. It was bizarre. Jon felt his eyes shooting over to his face whenever he opened his mouth, unsure of whether he was exceptionally well-adjusted or a massively strange person. Was this standard? Should Jon have been more sympathetic? Murmur platitudes?

Even so, neither Jon nor the strange new man elected to share their story to the group. After perfectly normal, depressing stories from old men and women slowly losing their mental capacity – Jon personally didn’t feel it appropriate to air his own personal episode of _Unsolved Mysteries._

They’d taken a break about thirty minutes in, and Jon had all but fled to get some coffee and a pastry. He had lingered at the table for far longer than he really needed to, pretending like he was an alien that had just come from Earth and had never encountered a coffee thermos before, when he became aware of a presence just behind him.

“Um, hi,” the man greeted.

“Oh, I’m – sorry, I think the button on this dispenser is stuck,” Jon jerkily lied, shoving his thumb down. The liquid dispensed into his styrofoam cup. “Ah! There it goes, excellent, right, there we are.”

“The – what? The coffee thing! Yes, of course.”

After pouring a good amount of sugar and cream into his coffee, Jon looked up into the man’s green-blue eyes. He returned the gaze. They stared like that for a few moments, Jon quietly cursing ever learning to talk, much less come here, because he didn’t know _why_ they were looking at one another and he’d clearly already confused the poor man but why else would the man come over if it weren’t for coffee or maybe he was just a pastry guy because truly it looked like most of the coffee was generally untouched, made sense for pensioners, it was 6:30 PM and he’d be up all night as it was –

Still looking at one another, they broke into an awkward giggle at the precise same moment. The man’s cheeks flooded with color.

Affection poured into him, all at once, concentrating into his lungs. They became nothing more than two useless lumps of tissue in his chest, rendering Jon breathless. _There’s no reason for this,_ Jon tried to argue with his senseless mind. _No reason for my body to enter a state of mild shock just because of … nothing, really!_ And yet, all of Jon’s feeling and sensation concentrated in his torso, making his limbs feel like they were only blocks of lead. This had to be what prey felt when they were cornered by a predator in the wild, _surely,_ and yet – somehow, during the course of human evolution, the human psyche had gotten so irreparably damaged as to conflate _this_ with … with …

A crush. On a man whose name he didn’t even know.

_God, you are so desperately lonely, aren’t you._

Jon did not like this at all. He did not like this feeling of being seen. And, yet, his green-blue eyes looked down at him in a way that seemed to scream, _I see you. Don’t think you could go hiding from_ me, _mister._

“I’m Martin. Martin, ah, Blackwood, actually. Pleasure to meet you.”

Thankfully, Jon’s tongue loosened, though he couldn’t imagine a more appropriate setting for forgetting his own name. “Jonathan Sims. Jon.”

Martin’s eyes dipped down. Following his eyesight, Jon saw that Martin was sticking his hand out for a handshake. If _that_ wasn’t endearingly formal.

He hadn’t noticed before, but Martin was wearing gloves on both of his hands. It was a pleasant spring evening outside, and they were indoors. And yet, Martin Blackwood was wearing two thin black compression gloves on his hands. Surely they were warm, weren’t they? That was odd, and rather at odds with the short-sleeved polo he was wearing.

As if Jon needed another reason to pay attention to this man.

“So,” Jon offered, “What brings you to, ah – “ He gestured with one hand to the circle of chairs, filled with politely gossiping elderlies. “Here.”

“Oh, you know.” Martin took a pastry and held it in his gloved hands. Jon noted what sort of pastry it was with the same alacrity as someone studying for an exam: strawberry doughnut. “Woke up one day with sudden, complete memory loss. Haven’t recovered it since. The usual old story. You know,” he added with an impish grin, “I didn’t even know my name at first. I mean it, _everything_ just poof!”

_Oh._ Feeling like his heart might stop, Jon shot one hand out on the pastry table to keep him steady. Perhaps this ailment _was_ more common than he had thought, but other than that … good lord, he’s come here expecting an entire group full of people like him. Now, it seemed like a stroke of absurdly good luck that he had met one person just like him. A kind person, no less. (A handsome person, Jon’s mind chimed in, but Jon had learned a long time ago not to always listen to his mind.)

“Er, you okay there? You’re looking a little peaky.”

“No, I’m fine. God, promise I’m not crazy,” Jon told him. “It’s just that, I’ve – eurgh. The same thing happened to me. Woke up. No memory. No brain trauma, either. Practically the opposite of a medical miracle.” He brought the styrofoam cup up to his lips and took a sip – and nearly choked. _Eurgh,_ that was terrible. Did he even _like_ coffee before all this? It felt like the coffee had been sitting out since the AA meeting the week before.

“You’re _kidding!”_ Martin stuttered out. He gestured towards Jon with both of his hands enthusiastically. “That, that’s – that’s _amazing._ Well, no, it’s a tragedy, obviously, and, uh, I’m very sorry to hear that it – but it makes me feel like I haven’t gone mad, or that I’m just, just, making things up.”

“Making things up?” That struck Jon’s curiosity. “How on Earth could you have made something like _losing all your memories up?”_

His newfound friend dropped his gaze to the floor momentarily. Martin’s thumb anxiously stroked the pastry he was holding, succeeding in nothing but strewing crumbs all across his glove. “Seemed about as likely as complete memory loss with no head injury?” He offered, and Jon found himself laughing.

“Too right. Hm. Too right.” The few members of the support group that had left on break started to shuffle back into the room. An unspoken urge to reconvene swept over anyone, and Jon tried not to feel disappointed. But of course he _was._ This man, he could relate to. None of those people.

And then – an idea hit him. Well. Why not?

“What do you say,” Jon asked Martin in a quiet voice, “If we chat about it while getting coffee elsewhere? I know a decent place. And this is _deeply_ unfit for human consumption. No insult to these young women and men here – “ Martin’s face screwed up, as if trying not to laugh. “But I do feel like we might be able to help one another a bit better.”

Difficult to tell what Martin was thinking. Was he worried about being rude? Was he not a coffee man? Did Jon misread this entire situation, and was actually deeply fulfilled by this group? Some people felt fulfilled about talking to old people. Jon was not.

But when Martin’s face had turned back to him, his expression was sunny and warm. “Sure! Let’s try and get out of here before they start back up again. I’ve not found a good coffeeshop yet – one of the _very few_ drawbacks to forgetting everything,” he joked, already moving to hold the door open for Jon.

And that was Jon’s first evening with Martin. They’d gotten coffee and sat there until the shop closed up. Jon certainly wasn’t about to suggest that they go home – what an absurd thought – and so, they wandered around London for a few hours more until Jon seriously began to question how he’d get home that night.

As he suspected, Martin’s story was eerily similar to his own. Jon walked in silence with Martin for some time, only breaking in to ask a question. Martin had woken up in a hospital bed. The only reason he’d known his name was his nurse telling him, but according to her, he’d been admitted in quite a rush and hadn’t been able to fill out the proper intake forms. No identification. _Nothing._ What was more, Jon found it curious that it was the very same week Jon had lost _his_ memory. Martin couldn’t give him any date more concrete. Apologetically, he said that he’d been so hazy the first couple of days from the medication that he couldn’t remember the exact day of his amnesia.

“I don’t even know how old I am,” Martin had cheerfully chirped. “Not a clue. I think I’m in my thirties.”

“You couldn’t find a, a birth certificate? Medical records, anything?”

“Well, you’d be surprised, but loads of places won’t release forms if you can’t list anything besides a name, even if you tell them you have amnesia. Apparently people say that a lot to try and dupe them? And …” Martin bit the side of his lip curiously. Jon’s gaze never left his face. He found that eye contact had never bothered him – in ways that perhaps it should have, because Martin was looking _squirmy_ underneath Jon’s gaze. “And I’ve, um. They didn’t have me on record at the hospital. No Martin Blackwoods.”

“You couldn’t find a birth certificate?”

“I’m, like. I’m like _reasonably_ certain that Martin Blackwood isn’t the name I was born with,” Martin had said. And for that moment, he left it at that.

Martin had been unable to find any other information about himself. No friends and certainly no family. No identification, no forms, no reason to say that Martin Blackwood had ever existed. That he hadn’t _forgotten_ anything at all, but perhaps instead just popped into existence as a thirty-something year old man and told to make the most of it.

It had frankly flabbergasted Jon. “How did you survive? You had no money, no identification, what did you _do?”_

“Things were hard, for a couple of months.” It was all the explanation that Martin was willing to give. Jon had noticed almost immediately Martin’s unwillingness to let the conversation dip to a tone anything below ‘cheerfully radiant’.

Martin Blackwood was a fascinating man. It’d been nearly two in the morning when Jon yawned so hard that his jaw cracked, and Martin chuckled at him and offered to get him a rideshare home. Jon could very well get his own rideshare, but he had made sure to trade numbers with Martin Blackwood.

Although it got easier to breathe and talk around him, Martin Blackwood hadn’t left Jon’s mind for more than a few seconds at a time for 24 hours after.

They spoke frequently ever since. It was mostly concerning their memory loss, still: sharing strategies that they’d used to survive in the world at large. However, Jon also began to learn a little more about Martin the Man: he worked in an office doing data entry, he was transgender, he never took off those gloves in public though washed them nightly. Jon didn’t know why. He didn’t think Martin was likely to tell him.

Martin was, currently, the only friend he had in the world. Which is what made this date-not-date business so tricky. Of course, didn’t all the relationship books advise dating someone you considered a friend ( _those_ books were firmly in a box in his closet, because if Martin was ever to visit someday, he was _not_ going to see those)? Perhaps, if he broached the topic gently, Martin would just-as-gently shut him down and that would be that. _That_ would tell off the archaic chemical impulses in his brain seeking to find companionship to provide strength against any potential predators. To hell with evolution and biology, he was a modern man that didn’t need companionship.

Jon caught sight of himself in the mirror, saw how the sweater had mussed his hair something terrible. He scowled and started to fix it. Wouldn’t want to appear _slovenly,_ would he? Not just for Martin. But Jon aimed to look presentable whenever he stepped out. He would not have people be _pitying_ the poor, poor, poor strange little man who had lost his memory. People already looked at him askance because of the scars, but he would _not_ be pitied.

There. That would do. It made him look like a recently-sacked professor, but that was the sort of thing people liked. The sort of thing Martin liked, probably. Martin went for that sort of thing.

Probably.

He turned around from the mirror to stare at the large evidence board in his room. A moment of uncertainty grasped him as he felt himself pulled towards it, like a hooked fish.

Jon grasped the bottom of it and grunted softly, exerting himself to spin the board around so that he could see the other side. This side, more often than not, faced the wall of his flat. Jon preferred it that way.

There were other things pinned to the dark side of the evidence board. New articles of every murder that had occurred in London in the two weeks proceeding Jon’s memory loss. Every residence in a three-block radius. Articles on blood DNA typing. Pages that Jon had torn out of a book on criminal profiling. Pictures of every alley, rubbish skip, and generally hidden place he had investigated. Pictures of what human corpses looked like an hour, ten hours, twenty hours, two days, a week, a _month_ after death.

This side of the board contained far more articles of interest than the other – not because of a surplus of information, but because of the obsessive research frenzy Jon had undertaken with it.

There was something else.

He hadn’t told Martin. He hadn’t told his therapist. Christ, how _could he?_ People would think him crazy – _optimistically._ Besides, they could find no answers, because Jon had thrown everything at that particular Gordian knot and it refused to crack. Jon was still going to try, of course, but he had no real hope of success.

His name was Jonathan Sims. A minute after he’d woken up in that alley, he’d stumbled out into oncoming traffic. The person that had helped him along to the hospital had described his behavior as erratic, panicked, and bordering on frenzied. He had been babbling one phrase over and over.

_What have I done, what have I done, what have I done, what have I done, what have I done._

In the alley, Jon had woken to the sight of shiny blood the color of cherries on his hands, all the way up to his elbows. More was spotted in the ground around him like it’d rained down from the sky. A prodigious amount – certainly an amount that a human being couldn’t live without. Terrified, Jon had grabbed whatever disgusting refuse in the alley that he could and wiped the muck off him before sprinting blindly out. He had to get away. Away from all of it.

His name was Jonathan Sims. He had murdered a person approximately ten months ago.

He just wished he could remember.


	2. First Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

“You think we might’ve met there, once?” Martin asked, pointing to a quaint little coffee-shop on the corner. They’d just put out baskets of hanging flowers for the springtime. Jon had walked this path a thousand times, but it was the first time he’d really looked at the coffeeshop. How storybook that was, wasn’t it? Little metal chairs and tables outside, light spilling out from the cozy interior. Couples who met there certainly didn’t have any strife in their entire relationship. No, certainly, it would be soulmates and soulmates alone who shared a croissant there.

Lord. Martin was going to turn him into a dithering fool. “Who would be the barista and who would be the customer?”

It was a little game they played, wherein game meant “coping mechanism but probably not too harmful”. As they passed shops, residences, or other lots, one of them would point and wonder aloud if _that_ was somehow part of their past history. Martin was a creative person. He had once accused Jon of robbing a bank _and_ volunteering for a pet shelter in one breath.

Martin tittered at him. “No offense to you, Jon, but I don’t think you have the people skills to be a barista.”

“I’m certain that asocial baristas exist, Martin.”

“Point taken. And you decide to make small talk with little old me anyway? I’m flattered.”

“You had a spot of breakfast on your collar; I wanted to spare you the embarrassment.”

That earned him a playful nudge which exactly sent him stumbling to the side a half-step, but he was wrinkling his nose affectionately at Martin anyway. They were walking down the Thames Path near the Chelsea Embankment. It wasn’t the most private walk they’d ever had (could hardly go a meter in London without smelling exhaust and asphalt these days, punctuated by the sound of a whimpering engine), but Jon was able to shove all of that out of the way.

His fingers were sticky. They had gotten dinner, and it’d all been very pleasant, and Jon had totally and entirely chickened out of confessing any sort of feelings to him. Of course he had. There’d been a few occasions where he’d been _screaming_ the words inside of his mind, begging his tongue to go along with it, but instead he’d just chuckle awkwardly and nod along with what Martin was saying.

Frustrating. Going on their after-dinner walk, they’d both gotten peckish for sweets and Martin had suggested something called a _cronut,_ to which Jon had replied with complete sincerity that he was mildly allergic to coconuts, actually, and – Martin had laughed like he’d made a spectacularly funny joke. Best to save face, on that.

It had chocolate and marshmallow on it, and Jon was positive he was going to glue his fingers together before this walk was over. Overall? Wasn’t a terrible treat, all things considered. He popped one finger in his mouth while they walked, getting further into Chelsea proper. There were a good amount of trees surrounding the path, here, starting to block out some of the overhead moonlight. Darkness started to enshroud them. Of course there ought to have been some natural fear involved, but Jon found that he couldn’t drum any up. It wasn’t that Martin made him feel safe from all the horror of the world, but that with Martin, he felt confident that he could handle anything.

Which was deeply amusing in itself. Two amnesiacs, neither particularly physically adept and in their mid-thirties besides, fending off some would-be attacker.

An abrupt change came over Martin while they walked. He was staring with a laser focus at a certain street corner up ahead. It wasn’t even where they were walking, and yet Martin was looking at it like it was going to chase him. His walking became mechanical and he was utterly silent, seemingly lost in … well, whatever was going on in his head. Jon couldn’t begin to guess.

It was getting _concerning._ Jon opened his mouth to say something about it, but before he could, Martin snatched up his sticky hand and focused on Jon with an alarming intensity. “Why don’t we go closer to the Thames?” He asked, eyes shiny.

_This_ was bizarre. Jon couldn’t even focus on Martin suddenly grasping for his hand, instead looking over Martin’s shoulder to see the street that had so alarmed him. He automatically committed the street to memory, in a little file card in his mind.

“Oh my god, your hand’s, like – _wet.”_ Martin suddenly dropped his hand with a grimace, shaking out his own before wiping the glove against his sweater. “And sticky.”

“Well, yes, most of my fingers have been in my mouth. Sure, let’s go up to the Thames.” And Jon turned on his heel to walk. Martin hadn’t even been holding his hand long enough for Jon to appreciate it properly. Pity. “Do you have any moist towlettes? You seem like the sort of man who might carry them.”

“What’s _that_ meant to mean?” Martin asked, his voice turned into an almost comical scowl. Still, it was pleasant to see the tension drain out of him. “I mean – I do have some hand sanitizer, but now I don’t even know if I’m going to give you any. Seems like an insult.”

Shrugging, Jon popped his little finger in his mouth.

“ _Oh my god._ No, yes, here, take it. ‘s your fault, getting something with marshmallow on it.” He rummaged around in his jacket pockets before extending out a small bottle of hand sanitizer, squirting some onto Jon’s hand.

It struck Jon that, with Martin’s hands always covered by gloves while they were out, there was really no need for _him_ to have it for himself. Martin had brought it along for him, in a move so strangely domestic that Jon wasn’t even sure if he was flattered by it or not. He had opted for a plain cronut, presumably so that his own gloves wouldn’t be sticky or covered in sweet particulates. Jon rubbed his hands together dramatically, thrusting them in Martin’s face. “You were definitely a nurse, Martin. I’ve no doubts.”

“Uh-huh. Did we meet in the hospital, then?”

Jon chuckled, touching his burned hand to his slashed throat. “I’m shocked you’d forget such a terrible patient like me.”

They turned down and walked the same path they’d been on. It struck Jon to simply _ask_ about what Martin had seen down that street, but he had a feeling, deep down, that Martin wouldn’t tell him. Rather than irritating him or putting him off, that only served to make Jon more curious. Nothing to be done about it now.

With his hands feeling quite dry but thankfully devoid of gelatin, Jon reached for Martin’s hand again. After all. Martin had done it first.

His fingers interlaced with Martin’s, the material brushing against the soft skin of his hand. Jon kept his gaze straight ahead for the time being. If Martin blushed, then Jon was going to get flustered, and he was 33-years-old, for God’s sake, this shouldn’t make him feel quite so _vulnerable._ And yet, he supposed, it was – technically speaking, at any rate – his first time with any of this.

It had gotten dark enough that they were left with a little more privacy while they walked. Soon, Jon knew, he would have to break away. Had work tomorrow, he would say, or he needed to go tidy up the flat. Not technically untrue, that, even if it was fighting against the urge to just walk around London with Martin all night, speaking with him.

Martin gave his hand a squeeze and then – oh. He started to swing their held hands back and forth happily on the street, his steps taking a jaunty flair. “What _are_ you doing?” Jon asked with all the magnanimity of a school librarian who’d just witnessed a young child mis-shelving a book.

“Enjoying myself, sod off,” he chirped back cheerfully. “I like spending time with you.”

Jon let his hand be swung.

They turned onto Albert Bridge. No, he hadn’t gotten up his nerve in the tiny cafe that they’d eaten dinner in, but this felt easier, didn’t it? Wide open space, out here. Perhaps not fresh air, not directly about a pier, but _some_ air in and out of his lungs. Martin walked closer to the street, blocking some of the noise from whizzing cars.

In retrospect, if he could review it logically, Martin’s feelings ought to have been obvious. Human feeling was not _all_ that complicated, was it? There he went, acting like he was some sort of alien sent down to monitor human behavior again. He felt like it sometimes, though. But the proper sort of alien that watched from a distance and took notes, because everything felt nice and simple from afar but horrendously complicated when he was down in the muck with everyone else.

He mumbled something, so indiscriminate that Martin could not possibly have made anything out. Martin made a ‘hm?’ noise and looked over at him, lips spread in a confused smile.

“I was just saying that I’m lucky to have met you.” Jon spoke, his chest feeling tight. Not in the way that he was going to start crying, but in a way that probably forebode some sort of major cardiac event right here on the bridge. “It’s an unusual condition, and I never thought that I’d find someone in the same puddle. But – here you are.”

“Well,” Martin considered, drawing it out. _Wellllllllllll._ “You know it’s mutual.”

“But, even despite all of that, even if we were just both two … men.” Pause. No, right, he was going to try that again. “Even if we were both two men with perfectly intact memories of our entire life. Hm? I would still be fortunate. That you’re also a, _hrm,_ ally in all of this, it’s – well, it’s helpful, of course, but it’s not … all.”

They had stopped right in the middle of the bridge. Jon turned to Martin, his back resting against the railing. Martin’s hair was alight with the glow from the streetlamp behind him, partially obscuring his face. That certainly made things easier. Then again, he could still see the flash of Martin’s teeth when he smiled, and _that_ didn’t make a thing easier.

“If you’re about to propose marriage, I’m very touched by the offer, but I _am_ going to have to decline.”

An embarrassing noise erupted from Jon’s throat, one that made it sound like he’d just choked in his own spit. “ _Grk!_ No, god, but - “ He sighed and looked to the side. “I think you know exactly what I’m trying to say. _You’re_ just being cruel.”

“Oh, that’s me, alright. Cruel Blackwood. You know that lady nurse from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?_ Based off me and my dastardly nursely exploits.”

“I have no doubt.” And, somehow, that made Jon breathe a little easier. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to give Martin an out. “Look. Regardless of your – I don’t know, your gut impulse, your animalistic feeling – “ At Martin’s giggling, Jon shot him a glare with no venom. “Shut up. You very well might not want anything to happen. Which is fine. I’d just rather you let me know before I go ahead and make a fool of myself.”

His companion wasn’t saying a word, and Jon was worried that he had inadvertently said something horrifically insensitive to Martin’s feelings. When he looked up, though, Martin was speechless. He could see him better, now, and Martin was grinning at him like a fool. “I – “ It sounded like Martin had something in his throat, and cleared it. “I do. I mean, it’s. Um. All of that sounds, uh. Great.”

It was good to know that _both_ of them were nearly overcome. Jon knitted his eyebrows together, nodding, as he reached to pick a few crumbs out of the front of Martin’s sweater. Martin was neat; it was quick work, and he was left with his hand on Martin’s chest and staring up into his eyes.

While taller, Martin wasn’t a ludicrous giant of a man. For the best. Jon didn’t think he’d be able to manage in terms of his fractured dignity if he had to stand on the very tips of his toes to kiss him. He slid his hand up Martin’s chest and circled around his neck, gently cupping the base of his skull. Martin understood what he was going for and ducked his head in return, before –

A hand on his jumper. Jon opened his eyes fully and saw Martin’s face, just an inch or two away from his. Martin had blackheads on his nose. No, that was impolite. He looked up into his eyes instead.

“Before I kiss you, are you _absolutely_ sure we’re not related? Like, I’m going to need 100% certainty here.”

Before he could help himself, Jon broke up into laughter. He didn’t want to think about his breath, which probably stank of marshmallow of chocolate, hitting Martin’s face. “You’ll be surprised to know that I’m positive we have no relation, adoptive or blood.”

“ _Fantastic!”_

Half-pulling at his purple sweater, Martin swooped down to kiss him. Jon wasn’t excessively sentimental, affectionate, or soppy – that all belonged to the man who was kissing him in the middle of Albert Bridge at 8:30 at night. He wasn’t struck by poetic inspiration, but the kiss was good, and nevertheless felt _right,_ and Jon found himself chuckling as he was pulling away.

“What are you laughing for?” Martin accused him, unable to stop his lips from screwing up into a smile. Jon’s lips were tingling faintly, and he wondered if Martin’s felt the same. A half-baked thought entered his mind – _I could touch and see –_ before he shut it down immediately. “Not exactly reassuring, a man laughing after you kiss him.”

“Enjoying myself, piss off,” Jon quoted. “I like spending time with you.”

That got him another kiss on the corner of his lips. Jon looked past Martin to see that they were getting looks from passersby. Not necessarily _bad_ looks, but the tired looks of tired Londoners who were tiredly wondering _why_ people had to engage in public displays of affection in a public place. Jon would knew. He gave those looks on a near-daily basis. Taking Martin’s hand again, Jon resumed walking across the bridge. “You won’t believe the mental gymnastics I’ve been doing over that, all night.”

“That why you were so nervous during dinner? I thought something had happened.”

“If you think _that_ was bad, you certainly don’t want to hear about my agonizing over what color jumper to wear.”

“ _Oh – “_ Martin swivelled his head to the side, as if noticing Jon’s sweater color for the first time. Perhaps he was. “Well, it’s a very nice sweater, Jon. It suits you. Makes me think that you’re going to fail my essay or something.”

“Ah, yes, well, that _was_ the goal.” An embarrassing thing that Jon had never been willing to admit was that he was, to some degree, convinced that he’d been a professor in his life before. He had a prodigious knowledge of literature and a deep misanthropy, all of which indicated that he might’ve had some sort of tenured position. That line of thinking had fizzled out. “I’d not fail you, Martin. Perhaps I was a professor having a fling with a student, that’s you, and hit my head whilst running after being discovered.”

Martin snickered. “ _Yeah,_ I’d believe that if you weren’t the sort of professor who’d take off marks for crooked staples.”

A loving kind of joy swelled within him. He was here, with Martin, and he liked Martin, and Martin liked him. Jon gave their hands a swing while they walked across the bridge and onto the other side. For the moment, Martin’s strange behavior left his mind entirely. More important things to consider, after all.

They walked for an hour or so more until the chill began to seep into him. Besides, as Martin sheepishly remarked, he _did_ have work tomorrow and he probably ought to get back to get the washing done before the morning, and a good deal other things that Jon didn’t hear because he was too busy pulling up the rideshare application on his phone.

“But,” he heard Martin remark, “We should – I mean. Do this, again.”

“I wasn’t intending for this to be the last time we ever saw each other, no.” Jon half-smirked up at Martin. “We’ll figure out a time. Proper date and all, would you imagine.”

Martin’s arm slid around his waist and he pushed himself up to his tiptoes so that he could kiss the top of his head, in a gesture that _was_ very sweet but nevertheless made Jon jokingly bristle at the perceived condescension. “It’ll be nice,” he added. Martin pulled him against his chest in the cold, warming Jon considerably. “Ten minutes.”

Trying to shield Martin from seeing, Jon opened up the notes app on his phone again. There was a series of notes to himself. Near the top was ‘MARTIN BLACKWOOD’ in all capital letters. Underneath, ‘CALL FIRST’ and ‘FRIEND’ and ‘FELLOW AMNESIAC’ and ‘SAFE’, all in capitals and with similar urgency. Jon’s thumb hovered over the third line, uncertain, before he added a few letters. They hadn’t formally discussed ‘BOYFRIEND’ yet, but it was an apt enough descriptor. Besides, if Jon was in that sort of situation again, then he doubted he would be quibbling too much over details. He would want to know to his future second-time-amnesiac self that he’d once kissed Martin Blackwood, anyway.

The doctors had been utterly unable to find an explanation for what had happened. Jon had suffered no recent brain damage. No falls. No injuries on him, beyond the ones that had long since healed. Certainly, he was deeply underweight and would likely suffer from joint pains for the rest of his life, but creaky knees didn’t cause memory loss.

The full diagnosis had been global focal retrograde amnesia and he had been advised that he would recover fully in some weeks. They suggested it had probably been some traumatic event in his life, perhaps compounded with an injury so minor that it had fully healed by then. “Some weeks” came and went. The diagnosis hadn’t shifted. A few more scans had been taken and a recommendation for a therapist delivered.

Jon, somehow, hadn’t been surprised that they’d been unable to find a cause. He felt like he was a pessimist at heart. It seemed to him that the “traumatic event” was likely him waking with someone else’s blood coating his arms, that seemed obvious enough, but that didn’t reveal anything akin to a solution. And, what was worse – if he knew that his body reacted that way to trauma, what was to stop all of it from happening again? Preventing trauma was difficult at best.

At first, the possibility had been too horrifying to consider. But, as the months passed in Jon’s new life and he began to forget details – normal details, details that nobody could reasonably be expected to remember – it quickly became evident that he needed to do _something_ for his peace of mind.

He had a much more thorough reference binder at home, and Martin knew where it was located (just like he knew where Martin’s reference binder was located, though significantly smaller). In it was very important document that Jon had been able to drum up from his past life, as well as every detail about his current life. It was a smaller and perhaps less cumbersome version of the evidence board in the living room. The only detail Jon hadn’t included was the murder, because – _honestly –_ if he managed to forget that again, it’d be a blessing. Martin affectionately called the binder ‘Jonathan Sims for Dummies’.

It made him feel better. In case his life ended again.

“Think that’s for us,” Martin remarked as a car pulled up to the curb. Jon saved the changes he made to the notes and pulled himself away from Martin’s side. Martin stepped forward to open the car door for Jon ( _this was new)_ and, giving Martin a lovingly withering look, Jon slipped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, this is all getting posted more-or-less as soon as I can get them up once I figure out CWs.


	3. First Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

Jon’s front door slammed shut behind him while he walked in. He’d considered offering Martin up for some coffee or tea, but eventually decided against it. It was always tempting to keep Martin around for as long as he could snatch from him, but Jon needed time to process all that had happened.

He had a boyfriend. _Hrm._ Well, sort of, he had a friend that he had kissed and expressed mutual interest for. He would continue to privately think of Martin as his boyfriend for lack of a better term, but he would prefer to cut his own tongue out than say the word in front of him. That was something, wasn’t it? That was definitely … something.

He must have stood on the rug just inside his door for five minutes, staring directly at the opposite wall. Martin’s aftershave still lingered around him. Just before he’d gotten out of the cab, he’d felt bold and given Martin one last kiss. Damn what the cabbie thought. Probably nothing. Honestly, he was probably just pleased that everyone’s clothes remained on and nobody’s genitalia engorged themselves.

As boyfriends went, Martin was lovely. Not that Jon had loads of experience with Martin-as-a-boyfriend (approximately an hour and forty-five minutes, and oh god he would have to note in the binder the date they got together, perhaps include a few written lines about certain details about the date), but Martin-as-a-man was one-of-a-kind. Hardworking and upbeat and utterly, utterly selfless.

Not for the first time, he felt bad for Martin’s situation. Jon had had some runs of luck when he’d come to – even if, at the time, it had felt like the world was ending around him. He’d been able to find out a little about who he had been. Martin, on the other hand, hadn’t found out a single detail excepting his name. Jon couldn’t say how much it bothered him, but it _had_ to bother him, didn’t it? It’d been an obsession of his when he’d just woken. He couldn’t imagine diving head first into the pool only to find that it was empty.

He stepped forward into the living room, letting his bag fall on the floor. The flat certainly seemed emptier than usual, didn’t it? Well, he supposed it would. Didn’t have Martin Blackwood in it, leaning against him in the cab, wrapping his arm around his waist, snickering in his ear about something or other. Martin’s laugh was so much _better_ when it was directly against his ear.

Martin was such a kind, loving person. Deserved much better than he’d gotten. Again, Jon’s memory returned to his unusual behavior, that strange _stiffening_ when they’d passed that particular street. Of course he had to tie it to the only other unusual thing he knew about Martin: his everpresent gloves, which Martin had never brought up and Jon had never questioned.

What about that street frightened Martin so badly?

Jon moved to the large evidence board. Right now, the “safe” side faced outward, the side that listed all of the knowledge he’d learned himself so far. He pushed his the board until it started to rotate, showing pictures considerably more gruesome.

If he were being honest, his investigation into that murder had sort of died down. He simply hadn’t found anything that correlated with the blood in his hands. Strange, really, it’d been such a big part of his life and now – in that moment, suddenly – it felt almost _stale_ to him. _If you found out tomorrow what happened,_ Jon asked himself, _what would you do, really? You know you wouldn’t turn yourself in. You wouldn’t go and pay respects to the grave. Would you even feel ashamed? Aggrieved?_

Jon had to admit that he … wouldn’t. Did that make him heartless? He was surprised that he would do such a thing, but whatever motive he must have had – well. It was thrown down the rubbish chute with everything else.

Now, _Martin,_ on the other hand. _Martin’s_ dirty little secret still affected him. Frightened him, clearly. And what did Martin even knew about it? Probably very little, if he hadn’t been able to find anything else out about himself. And Martin so badly wanted to know things about himself. He talked about it rarely, of course, but it deeply troubled Martin that he knew so little of his past life.

It would be for his own good. Jon would be _helping,_ if he investigated on his behalf. Smoothed out the wrinkles, so to speak.

His hand reached up and delicately started to remove all the bits of paper that were attached to the dark side of the board. After his hands proved unable to balance all the delicate documents, he just let them curl to the floor as he cleared it off. Soon, a tan corkboard covered in push-pin holes looked back at him. Jon took a deep breath.

He had a picture of Martin and himself. On it, Jon took a red marker and circled Martin’s gloves in the photo. Pinned.

He took an index card. With exceedingly elegant handwriting, Jon wrote the name of the intersecting street where Martin had flinched. Pinned.

Jon hesitated for a second. At first, that seemed enough to be getting on with. But he had to consider an alternate viewpoint, one he _hadn’t_ had to consider when dealing with the investigation of himself. As fond as he was of Martin, of course, he did have to begrudgingly admit that he didn’t know every little thing about the man. He couldn’t crawl in through his ears and see inside of his head.

Jon took a Post-It note, easily removed if this line of thinking was false. He took the same red marker and wrote ‘MARTIN LIAR?’ in large capital letters, before slapping it on the evidence board.

**

A child was staring at him on the tube.

It wasn’t the first time, but Jon nevertheless found it deeply disconcerting. There was nothing like the endlessly inquisitive stare of a child. Eyes much too wide for their head, slack-jawed and open mouthed, content with the understanding that this was entirely upending their world because it had happened three to four times that day already. Horrific. Once someone became an adult, they realized that every combination of terrible things that could happen to a person would occasionally happen, but they nevertheless had to get up and live their lives and pay taxes with the least amount of interference involved, just like everyone else.

Jon didn’t _dislike_ children. He just didn’t much know how to relate to them. At least now he had the benefit of not knowing how _he_ was like as a child, and yet, the idea that he would willingly let snot run freely from his nose at any age was appalling.

He flicked his eyes away from the child, pretending to read the tube map diligently, but he was still aware of bright blue eyes with too-long eyelashes staring at him in wonder.

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

There it was. Jon flinched. He did a cursory scan up and down the tube. The adults sitting on the other side of the child were definitely not the parents – they had, in fact, as scooted far inward as they could on their seats to ensure the child wouldn’t take an interest in whatever they had to do. He spotted a woman nursing a fussy baby a little further up the train. Perhaps, but Jon certainly wasn’t going to raise his hand and call for the woman to mind her nosy child.

The child in front of him was in the seven-ate-nine age range, thereabouts, swinging their wee little legs. Jon put his book on his lap, pages down, and crossed his arms in front of him to hide the offending limb from view. He had one or two of those strange, semi-spherical scars on his face, but clearly that hadn’t disturbed the child as the sight of his burned hand.

He wondered if it would be deeply rude to snap at the child and tell him to mind his own business.

Certainly it would. Certainly it would. Didn’t want to be the rude misanthrope on the tube, did he? Didn’t want to become the sort of man who snapped at children, especially little blond-haired ones that had all the curiosity in the world. Yes, perhaps it was a rude question, but Jon wasn’t about to impart any grand lessons on morality and politeness today. He didn’t have it in him.

“Did your mother,” Jon asked politely, “Ever tell you not to touch the stove when it’s hot?”

The child bobbed his head up and down.

“Do you ever consider touching the stove?”

Hesitation filled the child’s face, before a more hesitant nod.

Jon withdrew his burned hand and waved his fingers in the child’s direction, one at a time. “I wouldn’t suggest touching it.”

The child sat back in realization and dawning horror, his eyes glued to the burnt digits. Jon privately didn’t think it was all _that_ shocking. Some patches of his skin had escaped unscathed. The patches that didn’t were twisted in that strange pinkish-and-whitish-and-brownish color. It was simply very clear what had happened, there, even with no memory of it. Now, the weird circles on his face, arm, and leg? No clue. If the child could offer any innocent insights on _that,_ Jon would be grateful.

And – no. The child had pushed themselves up from the seat and scampered off to go rejoin mummy, wobbling a little with the moving traincar. Jon flicked his eyes up to see the child latching onto one of their mother’s arms, watching him with wide eyes.

Rude.

Jon read in relative peace until they reached his stop. He felt aware of eyes on him – more than one pair – as he stood and exited the tube, breaching the relative air of London. In the pocket of his coat was the object of his investigations.

He walked along the same path that they’d walked the night previously, even crossing Albert Bridge again. Seemed _much_ less romantic during the day, particularly when the scent of the pier wafted up to reach in his nose, but Jon nevertheless had fond thoughts of Martin while he walked. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck and shoved his hands into his pockets. Maybe _he_ ought to invest in some gloves.

He had a notebook and a pen there, his fingers wrapping around the latter. A phone would do for audio and video recording. Not for the first time, Jon wondered if he had been an investigative reporter in a life beforehand. The daring sort, that leapt from helicopters into fields of war or ran into burning builders to save children.

A nice fantasy, of course, but logically rather implausible. He’d scoured online for his name, and he liked to think a reporter wouldn’t have been hard to find.

Jon reached the corner and looked down the street. He didn’t know what he was expecting.

A normal street. There was a cafe on the corner that seemed pleasant enough, should Jon be so inclined to stop for lunch. Some rows of flats. Shops. All piled high and crowded on one another like jagged bits of teeth. Jon apologized as someone bumped into him before continuing onward.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Jon retrieved it.

_[Martin Blackwood:] Bored to bits._ 😑 _Free tonight?_

Jon’s stomach fluttered at the sight of it. _Yes,_ yes he was, and he couldn’t imagine anything more pleasant than spending his evening with Martin. Maybe Martin would make dinner for him in his flat. Jon suspected that even the listings couldn’t list his flat as cozy without seeming ironically dystopian. It was a studio with a kitchenette cobbled together in the corner as if the landlords had remembered people needed to eat. Were Jon to take a shower, he could reach out and both pat the top of Martin’s head on the toilet _and_ touch the bathroom door.

But, according to Martin, he was just pleased it _had_ a kitchen and bathroom.

And Jon had to admit that Martin had made it seem so beautifully welcoming. He had some plants out, had lights strung up. When Martin opened his window, you could occasionally hear the busker playing music in the park across the street. Jon’s flat was probably twice as big and had ten times the gloomy, oppressive atmosphere that Martin’s did. Jon’s flat smelled of whatever was slowly rotting in the sink disposal, Martin’s flat smelled of vanilla.

_[Jonathan Sims:] You could’ve had a worse job before, you know. Maybe you were a solicitor. I’ll help you make dinner?_

_[Martin Blackwood:] Could you imagine!_

_[Martin Blackwood:] That sounds lovely. I’ll see you at six?_ 😁

The phone was deposited back into his pocket. Jon had a date.

And, as it happened, few leads to follow. Jon walked down the street until he met another intersecting one. He paused, curious, before continuing on his walk. What could had frightened Martin so badly? Jon had begun to wonder if Martin hadn’t been frightened of _something,_ but of _someone,_ and the idea that Martin was somehow being followed, sweet Martin who’d thank him if someone stepped on his neck –

Ah.

He’d almost missed it in his determination. Jon stood on the other side of the pavement and saw the massive gap in between two lots, sticking out like a child that’d lost one of their eye-teeth. He would almost expect it to be some sort of public lot, perhaps a tiny park or memorial, if …

Well, if the ground weren’t as black as ash. A large chain-link fence separated the lot from passersby, but it was impossible to disguise that the ground was hard and black. It was quite easy to see the dimensions of the building that had once been there – hell, the rubbish skip was still sitting, somewhat askew, in the adjoining alleyway.

If the fire hadn’t destroyed every errant wood beam or hunk of insulation, then it had all been cleared away by now. All that was left was a gigantic black _smear_ on the land. Jon felt himself holding his breath, as if worried about breathing in smoke, but the building here was long gone.

He curled his hand along the chainlink fence, staring down into it. Something swirled in the back of his mind.

A child’s voice. _What’s wrong with your hand?_

Martin’s gloves that he never seemed to take off.

A burned-down building.

Martin’s fear.

Jon’s breath left him in a rush, eyes wide as he stared down at the black ash pit. For once, the noise of London seemed to go mute behind him and Jon felt very, very alone, staring down at what had once been a rather large building, by all accounts.

And it had been burned down by one Martin Blackwood.

Well – presumably. It was a theory and he was no Sherlock Holmes, but it certainly seemed to fit everything that he knew, didn’t it? The only thing that hadn’t fallen into place was a motive, but that also could’ve been the easiest thing to prove. While Martin was his friend, he also couldn’t say that he _knew_ Martin. And who was to say that this hadn’t happened before Martin lost his memory? Jon had some secret of his own, of course, wouldn’t it make him a _hypocrite_ to judge Martin for doing something dreadful-terrible-awful when he couldn’t even remember it?

Yes. Yes, it would.

Which is why Jon didn’t want to judge him. It wasn’t like he was going to go to the police or anything. _Hi, yes, sorry, I’m looking to turn my boyfriend in for an arson?_ That would certainly place some strain to the fledgling relationship. Who was to say the kind of person Martin was before all of this? Perhaps he was a brute. A pyromaniac, one of those men who could only get off by watching something burn. Perhaps he’d changed.

No, Jon just wanted to _know._ He was filled with the all-consuming desire, right in that moment, gripping the chainlink fence so hard that his fingers had gone numb, to know what had gone down. To know all that Martin didn’t want to tell him. To pry it apart and shove his hands right in. The air of secrecy behind it only made it that much sweeter. It wouldn’t hurt Martin, Jon would make sure that it wouldn’t hurt Martin.

He let go of the fence. Mechanically, he withdrew his notepad and pen and wrote down the address of the lot (no sign of any sort of formal address, but he could interpolate from the neighboring ones). Before he could help himself, he was looking over the fence – Jon was _certainly_ no gymnast, but he was also a fairly petite man, and those gaps in the fence were large. Those jagged bits at the top would provide a concern, but he was wearing thick jeans and a jacket, and –

_Christ._ What was he thinking. Scaling a chainlink fence to a condemned burned lot in the middle of the goddamn day? He wasn’t even sure if it was a crime, but it was definitely _weird_ and liable to get the police called on him anyway.

He’d come back at night.

***

This was nice.

Jon had shown up at Martin’s door promptly at six PM, never one to be late, with a bottle of wine in hand. He had waffled on bringing anything at all, because it wasn’t like Martin ever drank much, but he knew how things were going to go – he would show up, and dinner would already be sorted, and Martin would go “oh, you don’t have to help me with anything, you’re a guest!” and the _proper_ reaction to that would be to fawn over the food like it was ambrosia itself, but doing that always felt somehow inauthentic (even if the food was very good), and so – wine.

Martin had opened the door, given him a kiss, and gratefully taken the wine like they’d been dating for months instead of less than twenty-four hours.

He really was a marvel, that man.

To be expected, Martin was halfway through making a soup by the time he even arrived. As smells went, soup ranked among the _worst_ meals to make in a tiny little flat. It was far too warm, too, courtesy of Martin’s sputtery stovetop. But as Jon stepped inside, with the lights strung up and Martin still in his work clothes, he realized that there was really no place he’d rather be.

An hour and a half later, they were relaxing on Martin’s pull-out bed. The first time Jon had stopped by, Martin had politely folded it up into a sofa. It was deeply uncomfortable like that. Jon was pretty sure if he shifted the wrong way, one of the bedsprings would just shoot up his arse and that would be that. From then on, Martin had pushed decorum aside and they usually sat on his bed whenever Jon came by.

Mostly-empty soup bowls and plates with cheese-toastie crumbs sat on the little coffee table. Martin still had a glass of red wine left. The making of the cheese toasties had rendered the heat unbearable in the flat, and Jon had opened the window. He could still hear the soft strums of a guitar from the park across.

So far, Jon noted with pleasure that the shift from eating dinner as friends to eating dinner as romantic partners hadn’t changed all that much. Good. He was reasonably certain of what romantic relationships were like (he was no fool), but he had not the faintest clue of what romantic relationships were like _for him._ Then again, he supposed Martin would be in the same boat. He leaned back against the headboard and watched, somewhat groggily, at the woman speaking on the television.

“It’s all nonsense,” Jon mumbled, bringing one knee to his chest. He said that, knowing fully bloody well that he hadn’t looked away from the television for the past hour. “All of it. Spinning it up so it fits into an hour.”

“I don’t think anyone watches _Most Haunted_ for the hard-hitting investigative journalism, Jon. It’s fun, though, isn’t it?”

“Depends. Would you watch an hour-long program about adults who whole-heartedly believe in Santa Claus?”

“If it makes me think that Santa Claus is hiding up in my closet, yeah, probably.” Martin shifted on the bed beside him to reach for his glass of wine. “I’m surprised you’re a skeptic. I probably shouldn’t be surprised, should I?”

“Hm?”

“Well, I don’t know how your little experience went, but I had plenty of doctors telling me that my, er, condition was “not medically possible”. So, I dunno. Sort of makes you open-minded.”

Jon considered this. “Unfortunately, Martin, I think there’s a far cry between ‘open-minded’ and ‘willing to believe ghosts are among us’. I have evidence that our conditions _are_ _n’t_ medically impossible. Being that – well. We have them.” He gestured up towards the television screen. “So far, Mrs. Fielding has yet to convince me.”

“I like her hair, though.”

“Well. Consider me convinced.” There was no real venom in Jon’s voice, and instead he reached over to slide an arm around Martin’s shoulder. Martin was still in his work clothes, which must have been uncomfortable (a few buttons undone on his shirt or not), but he had made no move to get up. “Perhaps you were a ghosthunter in your past life.”

“Think it’s a bit too exciting for me. I feel like I would’ve been better as somebody’s PA.”

“Mine?”

  
“Scandalous.” Martin shrugged out from under his arm and slid off the bed. It was nearly funny – by all standards, the bed was quite small for two men, but seemed awkwardly enormous for just Jon. “Be right back.”

Another fun quirk of Martin’s flat was the awkwardly low doorframes. The ceiling was fine, well enough, but Martin – at an admirable but not unheard of 6’0” – had to duck under the doorframes. Jon had internally agreed not to bring it up, until he realized that Martin _enjoyed_ being tall, and so proceeded to tease him about it at every opportunity. At 5’10”, Jon could itch his head on the doorframe but did not need to duck the same way.

Martin disappeared into the bathroom and started to run the sink immediately. It gave Jon the cover to stand up from the bed and gather all of their dishes, putting them into the sink and doing a precursory rinse on them.

After he had gotten back from his investigation into that burned lot, he had looked up that address and determined that it had once belonged to a research organization called the Magnus Institute. More to the point – a _paranormal_ research organization. The website was still running, though it was surprisingly sparse on information. Social media hadn’t been updated for some years, either. No contact information, but a frustratingly detailed page about the founder Jonah Magnus (died in the late 19th century, and probably not up for an interview). There was a byline about the current head, Elias Bouchard.

No social media to speak of. Just a mention of the university he attended what he had studied. Jon pressed harder into his research, but there was nothing indicating that Elias Bouchard had ever done _anything_ of note – at least, after 1996 or so. Jon supposed that being the head of the Magnus Institute left very little time for hobbies, and Internet research was more helpful for the post-MySpace era anyway.

He did get a picture, though, from the website. If Jon expected to receive any grand insight from the man – slicked back hair, pencil mustache, eyes directly staring at the camera. It was a shot of him in his office. He was sitting at a desk much too large for him, hands folded politely. The office had an air of ordered chaos – book-lined shelves were behind him, a display case with a human skull to the right, and a number of filing cabinets on his left. The only indication that the photo hadn’t taken place over 50 years ago was a chunky-looking desktop computer.

He didn’t look like a particularly nice man. Jon knew that probably wasn’t kind (especially as he occasionally frightened small children himself), but there was something about his leering smile that made Jon shiver.

Elias Bouchard. Hm.

Research on the destruction of the Magnus Institute had been frustratingly difficult. He had eventually found an online news article that had written about the fire, almost as a concluding thought on a piece about weekly goings-on. Magnus Institute, burned down, electrical fire, no current plans for renovation or reconstruction. It seemed like Elias Bouchard hadn’t wanted to rebuild his Institute.

The article had been dated ten months ago. Lined up with the ‘my boyfriend burned down the Magnus Institute’ theory, certainly. That there _still_ hadn’t been construction on that lot was strange, though. Surely the tax alone would’ve been formidable. Surely Mr. Bouchard would’ve sold it off by now. Unless, of course, he had so much money that it was meaningless.

There was one blurb on the Magnus Institute website that had proven useful, though. People who experienced paranormal events were invented to come in and give their statements. Jon didn’t think there was enough language in there to dissuade the deluded-and/or-conspiracy-theory-inclined individuals. And if there was one thing that Jon _knew_ conspiracy theorists enjoyed, it was the Internet.

It’d taken him another few hours to find a handful of large supernatural message boards and create accounts on them. He hadn’t chosen his actual name, but instead a suitably enigmatic pseudoynm: Quaero.

_I ask._

He’d started a couple of threads simply titled ‘Investigating the Magnus Institute’. In there, he asked for anyone who had come to give a statement. Their experience, namely. What they recalled about the building, the people. _Especially,_ Jon emphasized, any names of past employees would be deeply beneficial.

He hadn’t had time to wait around and collect answers. Jon was nearly late to come to Martin as it was. He had put a few more items on the dark side of the evidence board: printouts of the Magnus Institute website, that photo of Elias Bouchard, a photo of the burned lot, and the website snipping about it burning down. It was starting to fill out nicely.

At the time, Jon wasn’t even sure if he wanted to eat. The little bubble in his stomach – of success, he presumed – was enough to satiate him. But, he had wanted to see Martin, and so he went.

The soup had been tasty anyway. In Martin’s flat, Jon squirted some dish detergent over the plates before he felt two big arms wrap around him from behind. He hadn’t even heard the bathroom sink turn off, so deep he was in his thoughts.

“What are you doing?” Martin asked in a _I’ve-caught-you-out_ tone.

“You cooked, I’m doing dishes,” Jon returned in an innocent voice. “It’s sensible.” He had just reached for a brick-like sponge to scrub them off with before one of Martin’s hands shot forward, grabbing him at the wrist.

Jon thought of doing dishes with fabric gloves on and shuddered. No, he _would_ be doing the dishes for Martin. All of the dishes, if he so choose. He pressed his back against Martin’s chest, ferreting the sponge away from his grasp. “No you’re not,” Martin insisted. “You’re my _guest._ You’re not doing a thing.”

Martin’s other arm was firmly around his middle. Pleasant. Jon liked that sensation. So much of his torso felt … strange. There was a tingly sort of numbness around most of his scars, and his torso had a grand number of them. He wasn’t going to be bringing that up to Martin anytime soon. Hopefully, though, it would be a little while before _that_ became a talk they’d have to have. A few weeks, maximum. It really ought not to have been a surprise, though, given the rest of his scars around his body.

“It’s very domestic.” Martin sighed in defeat. “I guess. Is this what I’m to expect now?”

“I’ve done your dishes – or made God’s honest attempt – before.”

“ _Mm,”_ Martin nodded. He inclined himself so that he could rest his chin on Jon’s shoulder. Arms free, Jon continued on with the dishes. It was a wonder Martin managed to get them done in this sink, it was so _tiny._ “Thank you for doing them, then. You really don’t have to.” A pause, and then a more cautious, more soft – “This is nice.”

And, Jon had to admit, that it was. There was something incredibly pleasant about being held from behind, the slight puff of alcohol on Martin’s breath, the cool breeze flowing in from the window. He chided himself internally for being so nervous prior to all of this. Not much had changed. There really hadn’t been all that much to lose. No real risk involved. Just an overworrying fool, he was.

His eyes caught the clock situated above Martin’s sink. 8 PM. He would have to leave soon if he wanted to investigate that lot, because he would have to go home and get his supplies, and god knew that would mean he wouldn’t get there any earlier than 9 –

“You know …” Martin trailed off. “It’s not too late to start a movie.”

“Martin, it’s eight at night. My bones are crumbling into dust.”

“ _Come on!_ There’s still half a bottle of wine left. Tomorrow’s a Saturday. And if you hate non-fictional supernatural, I’m going to show you fictional. We ought to watch _Ghostbusters._ That’ll give you some appreciation for the science.”

“ _Science,”_ Jon snorted. “I don’t know if I’ve seen _Ghostbusters.”_ He racked his brain. Media was always difficult to determine, but he could make some shot at it, usually. Although he remembered watching _no_ films, he’d been able to recall certain plot points with sufficient vivid clarity to assume that he’d sat down and watched it. At some point.

He _really_ hadn’t watched a lot of films in his life, using that metric.

“No, no, uh – “ Jon trilled his lips. “ ‘ _Who ya gonna call?’_ That’s them, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you’ve not seen _Ghostbusters,_ everyone knows that line. Come on.” Martin decided to persuade him by giving his midsection a shake, apparently. “You’ll love it, I’m sure.”

Jon was pretty sure that he wouldn’t, actually. From what he knew of films, he didn’t have much patience for fictional versions. Contrived plots. Unrealistic dialogue. Etc. However, they would be watching the film together, most likely with one of their arms around the other. They would be right and cozy, especially when the window had to be shut and the lights turned off. It would be warm, and Martin would be there.

The alternative, of course, was leaving his flat, taking a crowded tube full of drunk Friday-nighters to his flat, packing a bag of makeshift burglary supplies, taking another crowded tube full of drunk Friday-nighters to the Magnus Institute, and playing about in the ash like a primary schooler in a sandbox. In the cold.

The Magnus Institute would be there another day.

Jon placed the final dish in the drying rack, turning around in Martin’s arms and pressing his hands against his face. “Alright, _fine,”_ he insisted, “But we’re putting on the subtitles. I’ve got no patience for films without subtitles.”


	4. First Post

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of severe burns, creepy eye imagery

Jon was on his side in Martin’s bed, curled up in a fetal position. A portion of the comforter had been kindly yanked up over him, but he immediately found that it was much too hot. _Stifling_ in here, and his mouth felt dry, and how Martin woke up every day like this he wasn’t quite sure.

Opening his eyes, Jon saw that Martin’s position was mirrored. He was curled up, eyes still shut, face relaxed in sleep. It wasn’t the first time that he’d inadvertently ended up spending the night in Martin’s flat. There was only so late one could stay before going home seemed much more effort than it was worth, and he’d fell asleep at some point during _The Exorcist_ (Martin’s insistence that it was only fair that they watch a scary supernatural film, after _Ghostbusters_ had failed to thrill Jon). Tucked in between them like a small child or dog was an empty wine bottle. They’d taken to passing it back and forth, unwilling to go and refill an entire glass.

It’d been a good night.

Jon stayed like that a little longer. There was something paralyzing in being uncomfortably hot, and he let his eyes flutter shut again.

With his eyes shut, he could hear Martin breathing across from him. The blankets were thrown on them and Jon could feel micro-movements, every time Martin’s chest rose and fell. Jon’s heart was cozy and content, more than willing to stay there the entire day.

Unfortunately, he would have to get up and pee at some point, which was dreadfully inconvenient. If he _was_ an alien sent from another world, he would’ve thought that they would have eliminated that little issue. With a grunt of disappointment, Jon opened his eyes again and slowly pushed the blanket back from over him.

Martin hadn’t changed out of his work clothes. _That_ certainly couldn’t be comfortable. He had thought to unbutton his shirt and trousers, at least. Jon could spy a half-centimeter of a scar on his chest, faded and puckering the skin, before the rest disappeared under his blue shirt. Jon’s fussing with the blanket didn’t disturb him.

He hadn’t really paid attention before, but it seemed that Martin was the sort to sleep with his hands under the pillow, securing it in place underneath his head. His arms had gotten slack in sleep, however, and now his hands were only partially held underneath the pillow in a gesture reminiscent of prayer.

As he had done so, the glove on one hand had gotten pulled off halfway.

Thick burn scar tissue twisted and warped the skin on his hands. Jon had thought the burn on his hand was concerning, but _this –_ Jon couldn’t imagine going through something like this and still being medically able to keep the hand. He leaned forward in curiosity, almost bent in half on the bed. It started nearly at the base of his palm and worked upward.

He suddenly bent up, looking wildly around for something – _ah!_ Jon retrieved a pen from the top of the nightstand, and gingerly pushed Martin’s glove aside so that he could see the base of Martin’s fingers. They were affected in an identical way. A cursory look at the back of his hand revealed the same. Both of Martin’s hands had been _severely_ burned, and Jon didn’t think it was presumptuous to imagine where that had happened. Jon was correct.

Jon kept his pen under the glove for a moment, staring at it in wonder, before the situation hit him.

_Christ, what are you doing?_ Jon asked himself irritably, yanking the pen back with so much force that he worried it would wake Martin. _He’s hidden his hands for a reason. You’ve got no right to go poking around his privacy. What, are you going to strip search him next?_

Therein was his conscience, he supposed. Jon wished that it kicked in earlier. What good was a conscience when it didn’t _stop_ him?

He reached for the end of Martin’s glove and carefully, carefully pushed it back down his wrist until the burns were entirely covered once more. The glove itself, after dinner and an entire days’ work, was pretty filthy. He would need to change it soon regardless, but best that he woke up under the impression that Jon hadn’t seen a thing.

Or – Jon hoped that was the right thing to do, anyway.

Jon didn’t really want to leave, but when it came down to it, he hadn’t brought an overnight bag, not even a toothbrush. It was tempting to have a slow, sleepy morning in with Martin, but he would _also_ like to take a shower. Besides, he was keen to get back to his investigations. The confirmation that Martin hid his burned hands from the world wasn’t surprising, but – _no, no. You’re not meant to feel good that you invaded Martin’s privacy. Stop that._

He sighed and leaned, cat-like, across the bed as he hovered over Martin. “Mm,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Martin’s temple. His hand went up to brush the hair away from his face. “Martin?”

Martin’s face scrunched tight for a moment, before he let out a grunt that might have been a noise of recognition.

“Good morning. I’ve got to go.” And – actually, he was going to take a rideshare, he thought. He had no urge to sit on the tube with everyone else, looking very well like he’d just rolled out of bed. “Talk to you later?”

Another grunt, this time drawn out. It could’ve been a ‘ _mhm’._

“Sleepy,” Jon teased. He leaned down further so that he could press a kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. Martin shifted his head just slightly to capture his mouth in a soft, sleepy embrace, not really awake enough to have exceptional dexterity over his body. Nevertheless, Jon was happy when he leaned back up and pushed himself off the bed entirely.

If he was too warm, then Martin was probably burning up. Jon did his best to tug the blankets over Martin again, but made sure to open the little window a crack or two to let some air again. He quickly took the plates in the drying rack and put them away (wincing at every small clatter) they made. The bag was retrieved off the floor and Jon leaned over the bed to gingerly retrieve the empty wine bottle from its resting place. It’d left a few dots of stained red on the bed, and Jon winced and delicately tucked it under his arm. He’d apologize later.

On the stairs to Martin’s flat, Jon dug out his phone and checked his emails.

Alarm and excitement prickled at his skin, shedding off some of the exhaustion. His posts on the message board were getting some responses. A _lot_ of responses. People desperately, it seemed, wanted to tell their stories of their experience with the Magnus Institute.

Dropping the wine bottle in the glass recycling, Jon straightened his spine considerably. He turned to walk towards the nearest tube station without thinking. Damn what everyone else looked at him and saw, Jon needed to review these at once.

**

_[GhostsAreMyJammyDodger replied:] The Magnus Institute is a weird place. It’s, like, a proper old-school library in Chelsea. Feels really old when you walk into it. You go up to the front desk lady, you say you’re going to make a statement, and they shepherd you over to the library or the Archives. I got the library. It was fine enough. They had me sit down, asked me a bunch of questions, but it didn’t seem to matter for much. I was just telling them the feeling of being watched in my own flat. Then my neighbour gets arrested for public indecency, like, a month later and the feeling stopped. What do ya know._

_[DraculasLeftCanine replied:] Usually the rule is that you go to the library for first-timers and Archives for follow-ups, I heard. I gave my statement at the library. It’s fine. Think I was interviewed by an intern. He was nice. About three months later, I got contacted for a follow-up by this bloke named … I dunno. Jim or Tim or something like that. Really good-looking. Hang on, I remember his last name was Stoker, because – well, obvs. Asked me if anything had progresse_ _d. And I said, well, yeah, my neighbor got drained by a big fucking bug and the cops now think I’m nuts, so._

_[TheHauntingofHoeHouse replied:] It reeks of old money. I went down to the archives on my very first time. Talked to a woman named Sasha … something or other. She was kind of short, black, with lots of long braids. She was really sweet, honestly. I started crying a bit and she got someone to bring me a cup of tea._

  * _[DEMONZ replied:] Uh, Sasha James who works in the Archives? She’s not black, mate, and she certainly doesn’t have braids. She’s the palest redhead I’ve ever seen._
    * _[The Haunting of Hoe House replied:] Well, I’m not gonna say I know what her racial backgruond is, but she definitely wasn’t a pale redhead?_
      * _[DEMONZ replied:] ???? Then it wasn’t Sasha James???? I went there three times for a follow-up._
        * _[TheHauntingofHoeHouse replied:] ?????????? Pretty sure it was Sasha, but I went in like 2011 man so IDK??????_



_[Bloodboiler9400 replied:] It’s real spooky feeling down in the archives. Like, it’s always kind of cold, not a lot of people work there. The boss down there – I don’t know his name. Tiny cranky bloke, practically ancient. He keeps the place a mess. Seriously, I sat down for an interview with him and a tower of papers fell in my lap. He didn’t even blink._

_[I4gotmypassword replied:] My mum went in to give a statement decades ago! Said the boss was some old lady named Gertrude back then. Apparently, she went missing – real spooky – and he got shoved into the boss’ position without any sort of vetting. Yikes._

_[DangerZonee replied:] I went there and a cop wanted to take my statement. I’m like. Why would I give my statement to a cop??????????????????_

_[Wakemeupinside replied:] I was told to go down into the archives and a woman with purple hair named Melanie King told me to fuck off. >:-(_

  *     * _[burneracct4 replied]: Probably shoulda fucked off, then._



_[burneracct4 replied:] Who wants to know?_

Jon had missed his stop through reading all of the replies, and decided to just make himself comfortable on the tube before it hit his stop again. There were dozens more replies. People seemed so _eager_ to talk about what they had experienced. By and far, the statements were mundane bordering on boring. People came in to give their statements (some decided, even though Jon _really_ hadn’t asked, to talk about their statements in detail. Jon could see that they were false, even through a highly biased forum posting), they left, they were occasionally contacted for follow-ups.

It was the names that really interested Jon. He noted them all for research later. Jim or Tim Stoker. Sasha James. Melanie King. “A cop.” “Gertrude”, whoever she was. The cranky head of the archival department. It seemed like the tide in responses had slowed down considerably, but one or two still clicked in as Jon read the rest.

He wasn’t going to miss his stop again. Pushing himself off the station, Jon told himself that he would _not_ take his phone out of his pocket until he got into his flat. He was going to be wandering around London looking like someone had robbed him if he wasn’t paying attention, even if every molecule in his body _thrummed_ with energy. He was wide-awake and perfectly rested and ready to run a marathon, if matters called for it.

Funnily enough, he wanted to call Martin and tell him all that he had uncovered. He hadn’t – for obvious reasons.

Jon nearly tripped on his top stoop because he was too busy looking at his phone. He caught himself on the wall and fidgeted with his keys for far longer than normal, before letting himself in. His silent, dusty old flat coldly greeted him.

He didn’t bother going to take a shower or brush his teeth quite just yet. Instead, Jon made his way over to the sofa and sat down-cross legged on it. He groped for his laptop and pulled it open, alongside a journal and a pen for note-taking. At some point, his phone fell in between the cushions. Jon couldn’t be arsed to retrieve it, not when he had plenty of research to be doing.

***

“Shit,” Jon grunted as his laptop died in front of him. He’d gotten the ‘low battery’ warning some ten minutes before and had impatiently clicked away from it. Unfortunately, he’d also forgotten that consequences existed. The screen reflected his own slack, slightly stubbly face and Jon leaned backward in exhaustion. More than a few vertebrae audibly cracked as he did so.

Christ, his eyes burned. He brushed his fingers underneath his glasses, pressing against them until he was granted some blessed belief. Jon couldn’t _quite_ feel his legs from where he’d crossed them on the sofa, and he delicately unfolded them. Instead of numbness, they suddenly filled with a crackly static sensation and Jon wrinkled his nose in distaste.

He’d filled several pages of his notebook from the obsessive research – so much that it had become unreadable. He had instead written the most important parts on a separate page for easy reference.

_Timothy Stoker: assistant at the Magnus Institute Archives. Very active Twitter page that suddenly ceased activity in 2017. Died in a building explosion in 2018. Obituary online._

_Sasha James: assistant at the Magnus Institute Archives. Ran a ‘horror-ible’ book club on Instagram for three years running. Suddenly ceased activity in 2017. No further Internet activity. Pictures on social media indicate a white woman in her late thirties._

_Melanie King: Former producer of Ghosthunters UK, current co-producer of What The Ghost podcast [ugh]. Subject of Internet controversy in 2018 whereupon she verbally assaulted a dogwalker. Dailymail article states that she attempted suicide by stabbing herself in both eyes. Currently blinded as a result._

“ _Cop”: Some mentions of Elias Bouchard being arrested at the Magnus Institute on suspicion of murder [!?] and other miscellaneous charges [but you can imagine how they’re hyping up the murder bit]. No mention of his release or trial date. Does not appear he went to court or that a court date was scheduled._

“ _Gertrude”: More than likely “Gertrude Robinson”. Obituary online. Cause of death: natural causes. Incredibly likely. Old._

“ _Grumpy boss of the archives”: N/A._

Of course, this all seemed to pale in comparison with the photo that he found on Sasha James’ Instagram, dated in 2016.

Ms. James herself, wearing a shade of red lipstick more fiery than her hair, was holding a massive cupcake in between her hands. A series of candles were sticking out of it at awkward angles. Her eyes were screwed up as she failed to restrain her laughter. She was wearing a paper crown with ‘happy birthday’ printed across it.

On her right was, Jon could imagine, Timothy Stoker. He had on a gaudy flowery print shirt with more than a few buttons undone ( _lord,_ they were in a restaurant, surely he’d be worried about dropping food down there if nothing else). They were looking at Timothy’s side profile for the most part, given that he’d stretched himself to plant a fake stage kiss on Sasha’s cheek while she silently laughed. He had some impressive muscles on him, sunglasses pushed back in his coiffed hair.

And on her left, there could be no doubt, was Martin Blackwood.

He was the one holding the camera. As best as he could, anyway. An unfortunate placement of the thumb had blocked out most of the table and a portion of his body, but his face was there and clear. He was beaming widely at the camera. One of his teeth was crooked in the same exact way that Jon knew of. His hair was a little longer, waves and curls alike falling to his ears. His arm was around Sasha’s back; Jon could see his hand – unblemished and unburned – on her other shoulder.

Martin Blackwood. _His_ Martin Blackwood.

On Instagram, the caption had read: _Celebrating a new year with some new friends at my new job!_

The picture had gotten pinned right up there on the dark side of the evidence board, but for the moment, Jon could only stare at it. Martin Blackwood, an assistant at the Magnus Institute. The place that he would burn down half a decade later.

At least it made _sense._ It gave him opportunity, if nothing else – and if one used their imagination, a little motive. Unhappy employees burned down their places of work all the time. Or something like that, anyway.

And yet, there were too many loose ends for Jon to be truly pleased with it. If it had been arson, why didn’t it appear that there was any sort of criminal investigation? Where were the other assistants now? It seemed _strange_ that Martin would get so stressed out from his own actions that he’d develop focal retrograde amnesia because of it – or had that just been the trauma of burning his hands?

He had left messages on every social media account he could find for Sasha James and Timothy Stoker. He had hesitated longer for Melanie King – she was _alive,_ at least, she had her own Wikipedia page on a Wikipedia for podcast hosts – before eventually shooting her an email from her website.

And god, did it feel strange. _Hi, my name is Jonathan Sims and my boyfriend may have burned down your former place of work, could we perhaps speak by any chance? Thank you very much. Xxx, not a murderer._

Ever one for details, Jon finished adding the updated information to the board. Former assistants of the Magnus Institute got their own little quadrant. Red string connected the Instagram photo to notecards detailing the rest of them – including, of course, Martin Blackwood himself. Information about Elias Bouchard getting arrested was placed by his ominous-looking photo. Upon further thought, _he_ did look like the sort of man who’d brutally kill someone.

His evidence board was filling quickly. Jon felt satisfied.

He rummaged around in his bedroom for his laptop cord and plugged it in to charge up. There were other, smaller avenues to go down – as well as make sure that his forum posting hadn’t attracted any more attention.

He could always check the latter on his phone, actually, through his mail. Except – where had he left his phone again?

He could text Martin to call him, so he could hear the phone ring – wait. Shit. No, that wouldn’t work.

Finally, he heard a buzzing from deep in the couch cushions. That was right. Jon went over managed to fish it out, only to see Martin’s face flash on the screen. Martin was calling him _already?_ Good lord, the man was going to be a clingy one, wasn’t he? Jon found himself smiling regardless. Perhaps later it would grow irritating, but for now, it was simply nice to be wanted. Besides. He found himself missing Martin, too.

“Good morning, Martin,” Jon flattered in a smug, sing-song voice. “Have a good sleep?”

“Wh – what?”

“Are you still asleep? _Really?”_

“Jon, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day. I’m sorry for – you know. Um, badgering, but I was starting to wonder – I didn’t really hear you wake up this morning, at least I don’t think I did, and – I was staring to wonder if you hadn’t left in the middle of the night and gotten yourself hurt.”

“Er – hang on a minute. What?” Jon asked in confusion. While it was perfectly understandable that Martin hadn’t recalled the half-awake good morning kiss that he’d given him, it seemed a little _early_ for Martin to get so flustered. He turned around to stare at the clock in the kitchen and nearly dropped his phone. “Holy _hell,_ it’s five o’clock.”

“Ah, yeah? Yeah, it is. So. You can understand – I’ve been texting you all day.”

He’d been working on his research all afternoon. Jon hadn’t even eaten, hadn’t even felt _hungry,_ and he certainly wasn’t tired. The worst he was experiencing was a touch of eyestrain. No pain in his joints, even. Although, now that he was away from matters, he could feel it start to weigh on him. His stomach chimed in with a mournful sound. “I’m sorry, Martin. I’d gotten distracted with something and I – Christ, hadn’t even looked up at the time. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

There was some silence on the other end of the line, though Jon could hear enough external noise to know that he hadn’t just been hung up on. “It’s … fine,” Martin eventually got out. It didn’t sound fine, but it did sound like Martin was trying to force himself to be fine. “You got distracted. I’m not your – you know. Your keeper.”

Jon didn’t know how to fix that, not really. “It’s sweet that you wanted to check up on me. I’ll make sure I leave a note next time – or at the very least, shake you by your shoulders until you know I’m leaving in broad daylight.”

“Hah. Yeah, please.”

“And it’s good you called, regardless. I wanted to invite you for dinner at mine tomorrow. That way, you’ll know _precisely_ where I am in the morning.”

Jon hadn’t planned that beforehand, of course, but by the time he finished the offer, he thought it was a pleasant thought indeed. They would have a little more space here. Jon would have every excuse to cook for him, and not allow Martin to think about touching the dishes. They could watch a film on the sofa (Jon’s laptop and the coffee-table providing an adequate substitute for a television) and sleep in an entirely different room.

“Mnn. I don’t know, Jon. Are you sure? I work on Monday.”

“Pack an overnight bag and I’ll remember to set an alarm.” Jon paused, biting down on the inside of one cheek. “I – last night was good, Martin. Fun. I’d rather not remember it as the time I made my boyfriend think I’d be thrown into an organ trafficking ring.”

‘I wasn’t thinking _that._ But – okay. I’ll bring takeaway?”

“You most certainly will not. I will cook, and you’re going to enjoy it, and if we both get food poisoning – well, it’ll be one of those bonding experiences I’ve read so much about.” That made Martin snort, and Jon smiled on the other end of the phone.

“Alright. Alright, alright. You okay, though? What’d you get distracted with, anyway?”

Okay was definitely a subjective term. From one angle, he was triumphant. He looked at the dark side of his evidence board, newly full of images and words. It hadn’t even occurred to Jon to bring it up to Martin, just yet. Not until his investigation was done.

His previous convictions still stand. The point of this, Jon told himself, was not to rub this all in Martin’s face and demand an explanation. Whatever happened had happened, and it was foolish to think that Martin would recall it – any more than Jon recalled about his murder.

Unless Martin was lying about his memory loss, which would be deeply impressive. Either way, it would all come out when Jon approached him about it. _After_ all was said and done.

He just deeply enjoyed something that he wasn’t _really_ meant to know. There was something fulfilling about the way that all the random details of the world – a man with a fondness for Hawaiian shirts, a woman who ran an Instagram bookclub, and _Martin –_ all seemed to come together into one nefarious plot.

From another angle, Jon smelled terribly and needed to start on dinner.

“Reading,” Jon lied easily. Well, wasn’t _really_ a lie, was it? “Stopped at a secondhand shop and got some books. Remembered I hadn’t shelved them when I got back, and – well. Got a bit stuck. I’m fine, love.’

Another silence on the end of the line. _Uh-oh,_ Jon thought to himself, before it suddenly struck – oh. Right, yes. The pet name thing, they didn’t normally do that, but what other response could he give when Martin was worrying over him like they’d been married for decades already?

“ _Hunh,”_ Martin remarked, as if dazed. “Um, good. Good! That’s good to hear. I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll let you off to make dinner, then?”

Martin did sound very sweet when he seemed stupefied by the bare minimum of affection, didn’t he? Jon wanted to go back over there, curl up on his bed with him and have a repeat of last night – except one where he remembered to bring an overnight bag, and thus wouldn’t need to leave in the morning – but Jon knew that he couldn’t logically spend _every_ night over there. It was a tiny flat. Martin would get sick of his company. They’d get snappy. Even now, Jon was quietly grateful for the time alone.

But the dream was nice.

“I miss you,” Jon nevertheless said, which was true, and Martin chuckled on the other end of the line.

“ _Wow._ Sap.”

“ _Clot.”_

“I miss you, too. Basically been besides myself all day. I think you’re turning me into a really, really friendly dog.”

“You certainly drool like one, in your sleep.”

“I do not – Jonathan Sims, you _take that back!_ I do not drool.” A beat paused, and Jon could nearly hear the gears clicking in his brain. “Wait, seriously, do I drool?”

“Mm, can’t seem to remember. I’ll watch next time and report back to you.”

“Most frustrating man in the world, you are. See you tomorrow.” Another pause. “Sweetheart.”

“See you, love.”

Rather than get stuck in an eternal loop of ‘you hang up’ first, Jon terminated the call and smiled at Martin’s contact photo. Lucky, lucky man he was. He slid his phone into his pocket and disappeared into the kitchen to see what he could scrounge up for dinner. Oh, good – and he had an idea for a half suitable meal that he could make tomorrow, too. While Jon didn’t suspect his skills were enough to _impress_ Martin, he could certainly feed him up something decent.

While the oven was pre-heating, Jon skipped off to go and take a shower. It was more of a force of habit. He didn’t feel _grimy,_ like he had that morning. Somehow, the uncomfortable position that he’d kept himself in made him feel great. Productive, and useful, and – if he didn’t mind himself saying so – _intelligent._ It had cleared that staticky fog that tended to take over his brain when he was idle for too long.

Still, one couldn’t ignore smelling a bit.

Jon ran the water as hot as he could make it, staring down at his twiggy body. The scars didn’t bother him from an aesthetics point of view, really. Jon often forgot that he had a body that other people saw, and other people didn’t just see a condensed version of whatever-a-soul-was. If anything, they fascinated him from an investigative point of view. The hospital where he’d gone to had had him on record for _some_ of the scars, but not at all, and they begrudgingly admitted that Jon probably shouldn’t have been getting around as well as he was.

Which was funny in itself, because Jon’s knees hurt him pretty frequently and he suspected that he’d have to use a cane in the next few years.

Not today, though. Sometimes, Jon forewent the shower entirely and opted for a bath instead. Today, Jon stood in the shower for half an hour with absolutely no pain at all, just enjoying the warm spray and pushing his fingers through his hair. Good days did exist, then. Jon would hasten to call this day perfect, if he hadn’t inadvertently upset his boyfriend. And _even then,_ he’d made things up to him, so it was a win as far as that day was concerned.

He stepped out of the shower and towelled himself off. Jon couldn’t fathom who had taught him the practice, but he had taken to sweeping up his hair in its own separate towel and letting it dry that way. The mirror had entirely fogged over, and Jon hummed cheerfully while he wiped a portion away so that he could shave his face.

He reached for the razor – and immediately fumbled it, hearing it clatter on the ground. Great. Jon grunted instinctually as he bent over and picked it up, before straightening his spine.

Reflected in the mirror was a shadow in the shape of a man standing in the doorway. It was almost a silhouette, practically 2D, and yet perfectly facing towards him in the bright light of the bathroom. Jon flinched hard.

All at once, a dozen eyes opened on the creature. They were all much larger than human eyes would be, and disturbingly photorealistic, as if someone had filmed an eye moving and plastered it on a living man. Some of the eyes appeared to be weeping. Some had bloody whites. Some stared glassily back. All writhed as if their bodies were in agony – and suddenly, every eye’s pupil shrank to a pin and darted until they were all facing Jon.

Jon shouted in shock, fear, surprise – an indiscriminate, almost _animal_ yell. He turned around, holding his razor out as some sort of useless weapon, but nobody was there. The doorway was perfectly empty. Jon was alone in his flat.

He looked back towards the mirror again, seeing only a deeply frightened man with heaving shoulders.

_God. It’s – you’ve spent all day in front of a screen, that’s all it is,_ Jon told himself, running the faucet. He splashed cold water over his face. _And you haven’t eaten all day. And you fell asleep watching a horror film with Martin, doubtless it wormed its way into your brain. It’s fine. God knows your brain doesn’t react normally – you lost your bloody memories after you had a bit of a bad day, it seems._

It would all be fine. Jon tried to shave his face, but found that his hands were still shaking too badly. He suffered through two cuts before deciding that he’d try again the next day. His hand found his phone, intending to text Martin. Not to tell him what happened, lord, he’d done enough worrying, but just to distract himself. Martin, no matter what they were speaking of, made him feel better.

He was greeted by another notification entirely. An email. Melanie King had emailed him back.

_Alright, ‘Jon’. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. You’re going to meet me at_ _Hampstead Heath tomorrow at 3 PM. If you’re not there, we’re not talking again._

_M_ _elanie King_

_Co-Producer of What the Ghost_

_GhostHunter UK_

Christ alive. Jon stared down at his phone, reading the letters. He tapped out a reply – and decided against it. Melanie King had made it very clear that Jon was going to be there whether he liked it or not.

And Jon was _very, very_ keen to be there.


	5. First Robbery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Robbery, threat of a knife, death threats, Stranger-related imagery

It was going to be a long night.

After nearly spending the entire day on it, Jon had forced himself to stay away, which meant that investigating the burned-out lot was out of the question. Christ, if it was making him _see_ things in the mirror, then that had to be a bad sign, wasn’t it? He had to make dinner. He had to change. He had to brush his teeth, for one thing. And he did all of those things with a sense of relief and self-importance that he was an adult, he was taking care of himself, and all was well.

And then he did all of those things, and it was 7 PM, and Jon didn’t know what to do with himself.

No investigation. Right. Jon considered making an exception for the mundane sort of investigation. Certainly investigating who he used to be was the same sort of self-reflection that everyone conducted when alone, albeit in a much more literal way. But then he thought that handling the evidence board, in any sort of way, was going to be too much of a temptation.

He tried to read for a time, which usually was enough to trap his attention for hours. Jon had read for entire days at a time, when he’d first left the hospital. It was more than escapism, it felt _productive._ It felt _good._ And now Jon picked up a book that was in his ‘to be read’ pile, forced himself through twenty pages, and put it aside with a wrinkling of his nose.

Any novel or memoir seemed pale and stale in comparison to what was in front of him now. In comparison to the board that seemed to taunt him in the living room.

He was going to relax in his bedroom instead. Seemed sensible. He brought his recently charged laptop, he shut the door behind him, and he tried to watch a film.

It wasn’t happening.

He’d taken a shower a few hours ago, but he decided to go for a bath.

Fine, as sitting in tubs of water went.

He made popcorn.

Tasty. Martin had once suggested using pepper flakes. He would have to consider that some night. Jon genuinely considered going out and getting pepper flakes, felt the chill outside, and decided against it.

He tried another film. A documentary, this time. And Jon was going to sit there, and make himself watch it through force of will, because he was a _human bloody being, goddamn it, he had free will and he could choose to sit here and learn about the HMS FUCKING Victory._

He sat there, in the living room, with his knees curled up to his chest. The laptop was resting on the coffee-table directly in front of him. The evidence board loomed behind on the opposite wall, in the one bare patch of bookshelves.

This was impossible.

Jon reached for his mobile and texted Martin. That did occupy his time through the entire ship history documentary and half of a documentary about the 1964 Olympics, even if he didn’t pay much attention to the latter. Martin distracted him well enough, and Jon found himself smiling and wrinkling his nose at his phone in equal turns. He experienced a few pangs of regret – should’ve invited him over _tonight –_ but two nights in a row felt like rushing things. Was it rushing things? He couldn’t say.

Eventually, though, the conversation naturally grew slower between them and Jon looked up to see that the video had frozen. It was nine PM.

Right. Had to move onto something else, then.

_[Jonathan Sims:] Good night, love._ 💘 _Get some rest. Thank you for dinner last night, again. Who do I have to thank for having you in my life?_

_[Martin Blackwood:] Shut up, dork._

_  
[Martin Blackwood:] Good night, sweetheart. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. And you’re welcome to have mediocre dinner in my shoebox anytime. _

_[Martin Blackwood:] Shoebox isn’t a euphemism._

_[Jonathan Sims:] I don’t think it’s supposed to be as big as a shoebox. You should see a doctor._

_[Martin Blackwood:] TERRIBLE._

_[Martin Blackwood:]_ 😍

Good. He wasn’t going to demand all of Martin’s time from him. He was fine, after all. Why, it was almost 9 PM. He could very well go in bed at 9 PM. Nevermind that he wasn’t tired at all and, in fact, found his gaze returning to the evidence board.

It was just that nothing else seemed as interesting, of course. And why wouldn’t it? He had discovered a spooky old library that nobody else seemed to talk about. Said spooky old library mysteriously burned down – perhaps of natural causes, perhaps not. And if it _had_ been intentional, then the man who had done it most certainly was his boyfriend.

Why _should_ he do anything else, actually? Yes, perhaps he’d pushed it a little far the first time, stressed himself out, but that didn’t mean the _cause_ of it – what he had done – was bad, was it? It couldn’t be. He was uncovering a mystery. Perhaps a grand one. One that would’ve remained _hidden_ if not for him. Besides, he wasn’t planning on doing anything with the information, not quite yet, and what harm ever happened from just sitting on information?

It would be fine.

Besides. It was already 9 PM, and he wasn’t tired at all. If he just – looked into things for an hour, perhaps, it’d probably put him right to sleep. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, otherwise, thinking of it.

It would be fine.

Jon reached for his laptop, exited out of the documentary, and pulled up the message boards that he had posted on. Seventeen new replies to his queries across three different websites. Well. He could just respond to those, and go to bed. Besides, if he didn’t respond, people would think he was a fraud or otherwise uninterested.

It would be fine.

**

The sound of a car alarm woke Jon up. He cracked his eyes open weakly on the sofa, face pressed against the rough fabric of the cushion. Christ, it felt like he’d somehow become one with the couch throughout the night, and for a moment, Jon was unsure he wanted to risk moving his joints and seeing the extent of the damage.

Jon’s ankles were dangling precariously off the end of the sofa, giving his entire body a downward curve. One arm was hanging down, completely numb. When had he fallen asleep? He didn’t even recall. He knew it had been long past 10 PM, though. Past midnight, too, he remembered when the date changed on the computer, but beyond that … a blur.

Jon scrambled for his phone and squinted into the bright light.

11:15 AM. Well. It felt like he’d fallen asleep at eleven AM, so that sounded about right. He had a few text notifications.

[ _7:43 A.M. - Martin Blackwood:] Good morning!!!!!_ 🌞🌞🌞🥰🥰🥰😘

_[7:54 A.M. - Martin Blackwood:] Can’t wait to see you tonight. Do you need me to bring anything?_

_[9:15 A.M. - Martin Blackwood:] Someone must have had a wild night last night._

_[10:23 A.M. - Martin Blackwood:] Have I ever told you that it’s really attractive that you have the sleeping schedule of a teenager?_

_[10:46 A.M. - Martin Blackwood:] Okaaaaaay, mister. I’m bringing you wine over, because I’m at the store and not going out again until I’m coming over to you. Hope you like white._

Some of the shame left him when he saw Martin’s texts on his phone. That would be good, wouldn’t it, Martin coming over? He wouldn’t spend most of the night, obsessed with his little _board._ Christ, he could hardly even read most of what he’d written last night, madly scrawled as it was on index cards and post-it notes. The board practically looked like a bird of paradise from all the color.

Yes, maybe Martin being here would definitely better. Jon was a little relieved at the prospect.

He looked around him. His laptop was resting sideways on the floor (triggering a wave of fear – oh, thank god, not cracked, just off). His notebook was upside-down over one of the couch arms. And one, two, three, … four half-empty coffee cups.

Yes. Martin being here would be much better.

Jon didn’t have much time, but he could at least work on making the flat a little less worrisome. That was the last thing he wanted to go and worry Martin about. He could handle this meeting with Melanie on his own, of course (because there was only so much he could investigate, and then it’d be over, and that would be that, he’d be a dragon sitting on his pile of gold), but he wasn’t about to start _inflicting_ his problems on other people.

Especially not people who he cared so much for that he didn’t know what to do about it sometimes. If he had his way, he’d just strew himself across Martin’s lap and just watch him.

He wasn’t going to worry Martin about this. The laptop and notebook were righted. The coffee cups were washed, dried, and replaced in the cabinets. Another cup of coffee was poured. In doing so, Jon realized that his joints were not going to be particularly pleasant to him that day. Even a trip to the kitchen, with the coffee cups precariously balanced in two hands, was dreadful.

Jon reached for the painkillers he’d been prescribed and took his proper dose, knocking it back with a gulp of his coffee. Bad days for joint pain always made him feel like some sort of cave creature, squinting in the sunlight and wanting to return to where it was dark and soft. Unfortunately, Melanie’s email had been very clear that she was not big on second chances.

The bath he took offered him some relief, and Jon let himself linger there until the throbbing soreness of his knees faded away. He drank the rest of his coffee and stared up at the ceiling, trying to go over what he’d learned last night. Some of it was hard to remember past a certain point, but he hadn’t thought it’d been anything life-changing.

People, again, were more interested in re-giving their statements than describing the actual brick-and-mortar of the Magnus Institute. That was fine, because in his other searches, Jon had found several pictures of the old place. It looked quite regal, all things considered, and well-maintained for being built in the nineteenth century. He remembered the large owl that hung above the entrance, like some sort of Sword of Damocles.

Someone had mentioned Martin in a statement. At least, they had mentioned a “big guy in a bigger jumper that made him tea and acted as a therapist”, which described Martin perhaps to a T. It had warmed Jon’s heart to hear that Martin was of a similar disposition before – and made it all that much more perplexing why he would suddenly decide to burn down the place.

He hoped his meeting with Melanie King would clear things up.

For her, Jon had listened to every single episode of _What the Ghost_ that had her on as a co-host. There weren’t many; she seemed to prefer the producing side of things rather than being on mic, as it were. The regular host, Georgie Barker, was her girlfriend, another piece of the puzzle that Jon had put up on the board. In every single episode he listened to, the Magnus Institute hadn’t been alluded to. Hell, as per the show, it seemed like Melanie had always been (a) dating Georgie, and (b) blind.

He’d managed to find a picture of her from her time at _GhostHunt UK,_ but given that her hair was bright blue in the photo – well, he wasn’t sure how similar she’d still be.

Jon drained the bath and got dressed for the day before he realized – oh, _hell._ He’d gotten distracted again.

[ _Jonathan Sims:] I’m alive! Good morning, love. Didn’t check my phone, sorry._

The response came almost immediately.

[ _Martin Blackwood:] Don’t you apologise for me being clingy!_

_[Jonathan Sims:] You’re not clingy._

_[Martin Blackwood:] Velcro. No, I’m not even Velcro. I’m the gum that gets stuck to Velcro._

_[Jonathan Sims:]_ 🔫 _That’s your one self-deprecating joke for the day. Not permitted any tonight._

For a second, he considered telling Martin about his planned meeting with Melanie. But then – well, Jon just wasn’t sure that he could adequately play it off as no big deal. _Hi, yes, I know you know that I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’m meeting with the pseudofamous co-host of a popular supernatural podcast._ Martin, bless him, would want to know everything, and Jon wasn’t foolish enough to tell him all _that._

As he finished getting himself ready, Jon finally felt an ounce of guilt for what was happening. Of course he knew Martin would be upset if he realized what Jon was looking into – this had all started with that damn street corner he was so frightened of.

But it was just too easy to justify. Perhaps Martin would be grateful that he looked into it (unlikely, since it was becoming increasingly probable that Martin had engaged in arson). More than that, Jon felt like if he’d just swallowed his tongue on the matter when it was done … well, it’d just be the _second_ secret he took to his grave.

Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, he’d never felt more in control than when he was doing this investigation. Yes, perhaps the aftermath wasn’t brilliant – he wasn’t the largest fan of waking up twisted like a pretzel on his sofa – but in the heat of things, Jon made good progress and found things out. He wasn’t just twiddling his thumbs, bored out of his mind.

He was doing things. They just happened to be a little unconventional.

Stepping out into the sun, Jon squinted wearily and headed off towards the meeting location. To nobody’s surprise, he’d never been there before. Visiting all of London’s forests and parks had never been high on his amnesiac to-do list. There’d been a few, of course, with Martin, before they were together. Jon had gotten it into his head that he’d been some sort of nature nut in his past life, but _clearly_ that hadn’t been the case. There would be no hiking in his immediate future. Not with his knees.

This wasn’t bad, though. Hampstead Heath had plenty of shady tree cover and a nice little path to walk along. It perhaps would’ve been nicer in the summer, because as it was, Jon shivered while he kept an eye out for one Melanie King. 2 PM came, and 2 PM went.

He began to wonder if he’d been in the wrong place. He had decided to pant himself right by the Hampstead Heath sign, but then again, he wasn’t sure how much use a blind woman would have for a sign – didn’t look like it had any Braille on it, either. Well, _that_ wasn’t very accessible, was it? He turned around to survey it; there was a nice little placard about the history of the area, and –

There was a woman.

Jon barely could’ve seen her, hidden underneath the shade of the trees. While her hair was now streaked with bubblegum pink, and she had on a large pair of dark eyeglasses, Melanie King was unmistakeable. That she was wearing a black sweatshirt with _What the Ghost?_ Written on it only added to his certainty. “Um, Melanie?” Jon called out, stepping forward and wincing. “I – I’m Jonathan Sims. Hi.”

Melanie’s head shot towards him. It was hard to read her expression – she was frowning, of course, but what that could mean, Jon had no possible idea. He found himself waving. “You responded to my email about the Magnus Institute?”

_Oh, for God’s sake._ Jon winced. _She knows very well who you are. She didn’t come to Hampstead Heath on accident._

She unfolded her hands from atop a cane, took one step towards Jon, and –

Oh. “That’s a knife,” Jon commented in mild surprise, gesturing with one finger towards the pocketknife that Melanie King, co-host of _What the Ghost_ podcast and center of Youtube controversy, was brandishing at him. It was so strange that Jon wasn’t even frightened at first. Was he about to get robbed by someone who _hosted a podcast?_

“Good work. You’re going to listen to me, alright?” Wow, she really was holding that knife like she knew what to do with it, wasn’t she? Not that Jon knew what proper knife-handling procedures were like. Well, more than he heard learned from a documentary once about metallurgy. Melanie took a step forward and instinct _finally_ kicked in. Jon took a step back, his hands going up. If he took off at a run, he had no doubt that Melanie could catch up to him with his knees being what they were. And yes, perhaps she couldn’t see where his heart was, but stab a man wildly enough times and he was liable to stop moving no matter where you hit him.

Perhaps if he backed away slowly, she wouldn’t be able to tell. Jon managed three steps before his back heel crunched on a leaf. Melanie leapt two steps forward. “You run, and this isn’t going to end well for you. I’m not the only person here.”

That made Jon swivel his head around like he was on a dolly, but he saw nobody. The park seemed strangely empty for 2 PM on a pleasant enough afternoon on a weekend. Jon suddenly felt very frightened, indeed. Christ, one sentence and it felt like there were eyes watching him everywhere. He stuck his hands into his sweatshirt pockets.

“I don’t know who the hell you are. I don’t know what the hell you’re made of. And, frankly? I don’t care. The only reason I’m not ripping out your stuffing is because I don’t want people getting the wrong idea, and you’re not worth the time in planning an actual murder.” At Melanie’s words, Jon felt his blood run ice cold. An actual murder. Of … _him._ This woman was going to murder him, if she so had the inclination. “But if you involve me or Georgie in your life again, and you’re going to be worth the time. You understand?”

“G-” Jon wasn’t sure what she meant. “Georgie Barker?”

“ _Yes,_ numpty. She responded to one of your stupid little forum postings.” Jon tilted his head back at that. Perhaps she had – but nobody used their real names on those things, anyway, and she certainly hadn’t identified herself.

This was _madness._ Clearly – “I’m sorry, but I’m … very confused. We haven’t met before. You _or_ Georgie.”

“Yeah, you dumb fuck, _I_ know that.”

“Then … “ Jon gestured towards the knife with his hands still tucked in his pockets. His mind frantically searched for an explanation. “Is this … just how you greet people?”

“Well, you’ve certainly nailed the way he kept his head up his ass, I’ll give you that much.”

Christ, and this was just how his day was going, wasn’t it? He was getting threatened by a woman who had never met him, and also seemed very comfortable hurling insults his way. “I don’t _know_ you,” Jon tried to repeat. Melanie scoffed at him. “Is this because – do you know Martin Blackwood?”

Melanie certainly did. Her head shot up like she just spotted a predator. Her eyebrows (one of them with a slit running through it) furrowed together. “You’ve gotten into contact with Martin already?”

“I mean – yes. He’s my boyfriend?” What a hell of a time to say the word ‘boyfriend’ out loud. Despite himself, Jon found himself stuttering out: “I – I mean, we’re seeing each other. So. Yes.”

“ _Jesus,_ Martin really ought to know better. _Idiot,”_ Melanie muttered, half-way under her breath. The knife was gestured towards him again. “He gets included in that. Alright? You stop messing with him. You’re not touching any of us.”

More than know him, Melanie seemed to care about him. Or – rather, thought he was something that needed her protection. A thrill rushed through Jon’s spine. That made _sense._ They would’ve known each other from work, perhaps even cared about one another. “He doesn’t remember who you are,” Jon spoke excitedly. “He – after he burned down the Magnus Institute, he suffered from stress-induced global focal - “

“I hope you don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe a word you goddamn say. You’re not even a _good_ copy.”

“A copy?” Jon blinked at her a couple of times, certain that he had misheard. Melanie couldn’t possibly be implying that he was some sort of _clone,_ was he? While parts of Jon looked like he was Frankenstein-ed together, he was _him._ Of course he was him. Not that he would be able to tell if he was, he supposed, but that was all – _nonsense._ Human cloning had a whole host of issues involved that they wouldn’t have been able to overcome by 2021. “Melanie, would you please just explain what’s going on?”

“Alright. _You’re_ dead.” Melanie gestured with her cane to Jon’s form. “The real you. The real – Jonathan Sims. You’re just a. Christ, I don’t know. Some sort of mannequin come to life.”

While there was a lot to unpack _there_ (a _mannequin!?),_ the bombshell practically rendered him unable to speak. “I’m. I’m dead?”

Melanie frowned further, dropping her gaze to look down at the ground. She spoke with the same gravity that afflicted old towns by some long-gone tragedy – objectively quite terrible, but with no strong emotional impact. “Of course he did. Think you know that. Martin told me that he’d gone and done – and I trust Martin. He’s dead. You’re a copy. Fuck off.”

He and _Martin_ had known each other. Jon suddenly felt quite weak. Had he worked at the Magnus Institute, too? Had he somehow been involved in that terrible plot? But - “ Whatever you think, Melanie, I’m. I’m clearly not dead. Look at me.”

“You wouldn’t be the first puppet I’ve seen. Really hope you’ll be the last, though. Look,” Melanie shook her head at him, and to Jon’s quiet relief, the knife was put back in her pocket. “I’m not going to sit here and talk to a guy who looks like a dead guy I knew. I’ve got to get going. But the threat stands, okay? You stay out of our lives. All of our lives. Let us move on.”

Jon wanted to argue further – to reach out and grab her – but when it came down to it, she was a violent woman with a knife who was either absolutely nuts or … or, Christ, things were so much more complicated than he thought. He stood silently as Melanie walked past him. Jon turned to watch her go. She went out into the lot and climbed into the passenger’s side of a car. For just a glimpse before the car pulled away, Jon caught sight of the driver.

Georgie Barker, as per her photo on her Wikipedia page, looking considerably more casual. Her hair nearly brushed the roof of the car. She had her eyes locked on Jon – and Jon realized, with a start, that Georgie Barker had been crying. The sunlight fell onto her face perfectly, and those two shiny tracks down her dark face couldn’t be anything else.

Melanie leaned over and pressed a kiss against her temple. Georgie smiled at her, squeezed her shoulder, and then the car was pulling out of the lot.

Jon watched the lot for the longest time after, his head spinning.

It seemed too simplistic to assume that she didn’t know what she was talking about. She seemed so _certain._ And Jon couldn’t exactly claim that he knew more, could he? The only thing that proved Melanie false was that … well, what she was claiming was _impossible._ He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t made out of _stuffing._ And therefore, he was Jonathan Sims, and Jonathan Sims wasn’t dead.

Unfortunately, Jon presumed that his line of inquiry for these two were cut off unless he wanted a knife sticking out of him.

To hell with it, then. At least it’d given him more information than he had before. Namely, the knowledge that Melanie King was either full of it or things went so much deeper than he could ever imagine.

What had _happened?_ God. Jon wasn’t sure if he’d ever wanted to know anything more in his life. More than a _want –_ a fundamental need to know how the world worked, because apparently, Jon had gotten it very wrong for his entire life.

His phone buzzed an alarm at him, and Jon reached in to check. _Christ,_ yes, Martin, dinner tonight. Irritation blistered through him. How could he expected to put this aside _now_ when Melanie had just dropped that on him? Push the entire investigation aside to play house with Martin, to make dinner and ask about his _day?_

“What’s _wrong_ with you,” Jon muttered at himself, shaking his head. He was being brutish, bordering on cruel. There was nothing wrong with spending a night in his with boyfriend. Hell, a week ago Jon would’ve salivated at that very sentence. Convincing his mind of that was proving difficult, though. Now, it felt like he was twiddling his thumbs while the answer to this absurd sort of riddle was just waiting for him.

He brought up Martin’s contact on his phone. Martin was leaning over a table, awkwardly holding chopsticks while trying to eat a sushi roll – most of the contents were falling onto his plate. Jon remembered that. Having absolutely no idea if he liked sushi or not, he taken Martin out there. The final verdict had been that Martin enjoyed it but had some problems with the structural integrity, Jon was better at chopsticks but found himself more inclined to shove the entire thing in his mouth at once and nearly choke.

He hit ‘call’.

_Sorry, Martin, but we can’t meet for dinner tonight. Yes, my joints, you see, it’s – I wouldn’t be very good company. I’m so sorry. Later, though, okay? Promise._

“Hey, you,” Martin bubbled through the phone. “It’s been a bit since I heard your voice.”

And god help him, a smile split across his face. “It hasn’t even been a _day,_ Martin. And you’ve texted me since.”

“I’ve nearly forgotten what you sounded like! This reminder was _really_ needed. I was about to start following men home in hopes that they were you.”

Oh, _hell,_ Jon was sunk. He let his head dip to the side while he found a tree to sit against. He should’ve just texted it, shouldn’t he have? Because Martin sounded so pleased that Jon _called_ him, Jon couldn’t bear to hear the disappointment in his voice when he canceled. He’d already worried him yesterday when he’d had his moment, didn’t he owe Martin to at least extend the effort?

“Well. Can’t have that. I was going to ask, Martin – would you mind terribly if I brought takeaway instead of cooked you dinner? I don’t think standing at the stove is going to be, ah – “

“Oh, _Jon._ Is it your knees again?”

Jon reached forward and rubbed at his kneecap. “Slept in a bad position last night, I think. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, are you mad? No. I’ll pick something up on my way over, you put a warm compress on it. I’ve still got the key.”

He’d nearly forgotten that he’d made Martin a key to his flat, and Martin made a key for him. That had been a matter of security than any true fondness, they’d hardly known each other when it’d been done. Jon supposed it was like when the elderly called one another in the morning to make certain that the other hadn’t passed away in their sleep. Except, it was to make sure that the other hadn’t had a lapse in memory again and was currently hyperventilating in their bathtub alone. In case of emergencies.

“Knew I was smart for suggesting that. Thank you, Martin. I’ll pay you back. Whatever you’re in the mood for.”

“Put the onus on _me_ to decide what we’re eating, I see. I’ll just pick up a pizza or something, hm?”

“ _God,_ yes. That sounds amazing. I ought to keep you around as a live-in.”

“Don’t tempt me, I can actually stretch my _legs_ in your flat. Alright. See you at six?”

“See you at six, love.”

Jon stabbed the ‘end call’ button. It didn’t exactly go the way that he suspected, really. Cocked that one up. But what was he going to do, otherwise? As Jon pushed himself from the tree and started to walk out of Hampstead Heath, Jon had to begrudgingly admit that investigating the ashes of the Magnus Institute was going to be difficult – probably borderline agonizing. He could do more research, wait for more responses to his forum postings to come in, but all that included waiting around for something to happen. Not to mention that, clearly, Melanie was aware that he’d posted things at all and Jon didn’t want to risk her ire if he kept sticking his nose out there.

The most strategically efficient thing to do was to – what was the term that was always used in cop dramas? - _lay low._

Jon could oblige.


	6. First Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Burns, discussions of poor self-image

Jon got home with plenty of time to spare for the date. There, he felt himself afflicted with the normal sort of urge whenever a romantic partner came over – the _strong_ desire for Martin to think he was a neater person than he was.

He wasn’t usually a messy sort of man, but he did live alone and it’d been a strange few days. Jon got books on shelves as best as he could and made sure the sink was empty (the dishwasher was full and had a rank smell to it, but that was fine). Of course, he flipped the evidence board over to what he had come to refer to as the “safe” side. Martin didn’t need to know about the other one.

By that time, Jon’s knees were throwing up so much complaint that it was all he could do to find his heating pad and collapse on the sofa after a swig of water and some pain medication. He really would have to consider getting that cane.

He rested his cheek on the pillow and stared at the evidence board on the other side of the room. When he was in the crux of investigation – getting threatened by Melanie King, for example, or crouched in front of his laptop for the seventh consecutive hour – he was fine. No pain. No urge to eat or sleep. Jon had chalked it up to the enjoyment of feeling productive, but he’d just cleaned his flat – sort of – and it’d been a slow decline until Jon had just decided that dust bunnies were part of the décor.

Strange. At least the heating pad and the pills were helping. They were making him sleepy, actually. Jon shut his eyes against the pillow and drifted off, trying to shake off what had happened during the day. What a strange, strange afternoon it had been.

**

Hands in his hair. Soft, gloved hands, gently pushing strands of hair back away from his face. Jon cracked his eyes open and saw Martin sitting on the edge of the sofa, looking down at him with warmth and affection. “Good morning, sunshine,” he cooed when he saw Jon’s eyes open. “Sleep well?”

That was about when Jon realized the room smelled heavily of pizza. Jon looked at the coffee table to see the box sitting there. Christ, it’d felt like he’d been asleep for _days._ “What time is it?” His voice was hoarse.

“Quarter after six.”

“In the morning?” Jon blearily squinted towards the blinds. There was no light outside, but given that he hadn’t woken up at six in the morning for a _very_ long time – did the sun rise this early?

“Oh-kay. You really were out, weren’t you? It’s the evening. Thought that you would prefer me waking you up as to sleeping all night. Thought it might be a bit creepy if I just sat here eating pizza while you napped.”

Jon hummed indiscriminately before sitting up on the couch. He stretched his arms out – god, surely he was too young for all of his bones to be cracking _that_ ominously.

It was clear that Martin had just got in; he hadn’t even bothered taking off his coat yet. At least he’d been woken. The nap had been pleasant, the sort of hazy sleep he sometimes got after taking his medication. “ _Mm,”_ Jon murmured weakly, rubbing his palms in his eyesockets. The side of his thigh was unusually warm, a symptom of the heating pad getting lodged in between his body and the couch cushion. Certainly some fires had started that way. _That_ hadn’t been good. Jon raised his arms and put them over Martin’s shoulders, before pulling Martin back down with him on the sofa.

His jacket was still wet from outside, and Martin stiffened for a bit on him before relaxing nose-to-nose. If Jon hadn’t been softened from sleep and affection, he would have been more hesitant about initiating that.

“I take it that your knees are feeling better, then?” Martin asked. Jon noticed that Martin was propping himself up on his elbows in a modified cobra pose rather than drop his full weight on him, to which Jon had to suppress a roll of his eyes. On the off-chance that it _wasn’t_ because of a deep-seated fear of squishing his boyfriend, though, Jon decided not to comment. “Your day’s been good?”

Memories from the day flowed back to him. Getting threatened with a knife by Melanie King – the knowledge that he and Martin had once _known_ each other. _Everything._ Christ. He blinked up at Martin. For an instant, Jon was hit with an urge to tell Martin everything that he investigated. Everything that he now knew about Martin’s past. But that was overshadowed by the certainty that Martin would be _overwhelmed,_ at a minimum, and – they were having a nice night. Instead, he just murmured something in the affirmative.

Jon hadn’t even realized that his eyes had drifted shut again before he felt kisses being pressed on his forehead and cheekbones. “Christ, sorry,” he muttered, opening his eyes again. “Groggy.”

“Naps’ll do that sometimes. Come on, you hungry?”

He wasn’t very hungry, as a matter of fact, but thought it better to eat something than not. Martin shifted off of him and stood, peeling off his jacket and hanging it up. Jon sat up and found the heating pad, fiddling with the dial. “Dunno how you can stand those things,” Martin remarked, getting his coat to lay flat on the hook. “They always make me feel like I’m pissing myself.”

“I don’t piss out of my knees.”

“Point taken, s’pose. You like peppers on your pizza, don’t you? I got half that and half plain. Want me to pour a glass of wine?”

That was a lot of words to take in when Jon was still blinking his eyes awake. He pushed himself up to a standing position, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “God, no, I think I’ll go right to sleep if I do. And, Martin?” He walked forward and took Martin’s gloved hand, pressing it against his own chest. This probably wasn’t very polite, wasn’t it? Falling asleep before their night and practically acting like some sort of zombie? “How was your day? How was work?”

“Ah, it’s Sunday?” Jon blinked a few times in realization. Christ, yes. Yes, it was. It was Sunday. “Are you sure you’re okay, Jon? You’re pale as anything and you look exhausted. If you want to go back to bed –”

“No, no. My therapist has got me on a new medication, likely just a side effect. No, Martin, I want …” Jon trailed off for a moment, before taking Martin’s other hand as well. He clasped all of their hands together in a tight ball of black gloves and dark skin. “I want to spend time with you. Just one of those naps, that’s all, don’t know what year it is. Now. _Tell_ me how your day went.”

Marin smiled at that, the sheer realization that someone asked and _cared_ about his day was going. “Oh, pretty good, actually! Tidied up my flat, got some things done. It was so lovely out that I went to the park and did some reading, it was actually very nice.”

That piqued Jon’s interest. He gestured with his chin at the seven bookshelves that adorned his living room. Jon had quickly amassed a need for them. Hidden amongst the rest of the flat was twelve more, bringing it at an even nineteen. They were all filled to the brim. Jon had recently started considering taking the ones that he’d read and donating them, if only to fill up a bit more space. “What were you reading?”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t anything - “ Martin flustered in the way that he did. Jon would occasionally marvel at how _expressive_ Martin was – there was always some sort of movement going on in his body, other than when he was dead asleep. He practically wriggled in his own skin. “Just some pulpy science fiction thing, it wasn’t anything impressive.”

Somewhere along the way, Martin had gotten into his head that Jon was a purveyor of _the classics._ He had read them, of course, the same way he read cookbooks and maps and every shlocky horror novel he could get his hands on – but Jon wouldn’t consider himself an _expert._

Then again, he got the feeling that he might’ve come off as, occasionally, a blowhard.

“You’re really selling this book, Martin. Mind if I read it after you’re done?”

His boyfriend relaxed, a rosy smile blooming. “Yeah, of course.”

Good. Jon was overcome with a severe yawn that seemed to rack his entire body. As he shut his jaw, he pressed his head against Martin’s shoulder. Soft and warm and, if he wasn’t careful, he was going to fall asleep standing up leaning against Martin. He dropped Martin’s hands and moved his own to Martin’s chest, putting away. “ _Christ,”_ he whispered. Martin was looking at him with such concern. “I’m going to brew a pot of coffee. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Martin called after him while Jon ghosted over to the kitchen, reaching for his coffeepot. “I mean, it’s, like. It’s the evening. You might be up all night.”

“That’s the point, Martin!”

The pot was half-finished brewing when Martin came in with his bottle of wine. He uncorked it and poured a glass for himself – “You’re keeping the rest of this, though, Jon, _please_ don’t let me drink the entire thing” – and looked Jon over. He got the distinct sense that Martin was forming a medical prognosis in his head.

“Wine, pizza, and coffee at 6:30 PM on a Sunday,” Jon quipped. “Think we were bitter divorcees in our past life, Martin.”

That earned him a snort. “Divorced from each other, you think? God. How stupid was I?”

“There’s only so much to be done when your husband forgets the anniversary for the fourteenth year in a row.”

“Ah,” Martin murmured morosely. “We got married too early. That’s sad.”

Seven minutes up and his knees were already starting to twinge at him. After he’d just gone gallivanting through a _park_ for most of the afternoon with no complaint at all. When he died, or had some sort of bizarre religious experience, he was going to have a _serious_ word with God about all that. What’s worse, the irritation had started to sneak up the back of his legs and start to collect into knots on his back. He clapped a hand against his spine and grunted.

Almost at once, Martin was standing behind him with his hands on his shoulders. The pain hadn’t gathered there (yet, thankfully), but the soothing circles were nevertheless a nice distraction. “I think _I_ might’ve been the stupid one,” he murmured, and he meant it.

Martin, this man, and the Martin that had burned down the Institute – well, they were simply two different people. Yes, yes, yes, yes, Jon knew that you could never _really_ _know_ somebody, that a spouse of thirty years could wake you up by stabbing you in the throat and there’s nothing that could really be done about it, but – for Christ’s sake. _Martin?_

Curious. Jon felt a stab of determination strike him. That was an angle he hadn’t considered, had it? The psychology angle. Perhaps if he did some research, he could properly delve into Martin’s psyche and see if he held any lingering –

_Christ._ Jon blinked at himself.

There had to be limits. Didn’t there? He couldn’t start looking at Martin like he was some sort of research project. He wasn’t. He was a man that he cared for and trusted – perhaps the _only_ man that he cared for and trusted. And Jon would … begrudgingly admit that there might’ve been a certain angle of this where he had already grossly invaded Martin’s privacy, but _any_ situation could be flipped on its head if looked at through a bad angle. But he _cared_ for Martin. Surely that counted for something.

He stepped away from the massage and prepared his cup of coffee. “You can pick what we watch,” he offered Martin. “If I pick something, we’ll both fall asleep.”

**

Was this their second date? Or their third? Could dates be considered retroactively? Because when they had admitted their feelings – well, it was clear their feelings had been there for a long while. And most of their dates since hadn’t felt _all_ that different, aside from the occasional kiss or holding of hands here and there. Jon always recalled those with a thrill. _Oh, yes, that’s an option! A wonderful option._

This was the first date that properly _felt_ like a date between two people romantically interested in one another, if only due to necessity. They had opted to eat on the sofa and watch a film on Jon’s sofa, but it quickly became clear that sitting traditionally wasn’t going to work with Jon’s small laptop and pain. So, instead, they were lying down on the sofa together. _Spooning,_ Jon supposed the appropriate term was, with Martin’s arm wrapped around his chest.

The position had worked well enough, if slightly awkward for eating. Jon had propped his head up on his elbow and nibbled at pieces of pizza in front of him. He had hoped that his appetite would return, but it didn’t. Nevertheless, he finished two slices mostly as a way to occupy his jaw, the same way someone might chew gum. He would occasionally reach forward and give a slice back to Martin, who had gotten up only once to refill his glass. There’d been a moment when Martin had spilled a bit of wine on Jon’s neck, causing Jon to jolt. He had worried that Martin would dissolve into trembling apologies, but instead, Martin had smiled down at him and ran his tongue over the side of his neck. The noise that Jon made was engraved on the side of his skull forever, and Martin looked so damn pleased with himself.

Jon had made his way through half a pot of coffee and had gotten up twice to use the restroom, but at least he hadn’t fallen asleep in Martin’s arms. The plates and glasses were empty, and Jon no longer felt like he was going to buzz out of his skin. They were halfway through a crime drama.

“Do you still use your evidence board, Jon?”

The question had come out of nowhere. Jon twisted in Martin’s arms until he was lying on his back. Martin was looking curiously at the evidence board across the room.

In retrospect, it may have seemed an unnecessary risk to keep the evidence board there when his secret (and Jon _hated_ thinking of it as a secret) investigation was on the other side. Jon had considered moving it somewhere, but Martin had always known the evidence board to be right in his living room. He had eventually concluded that moving it would only draw attention to it, and besides, sometimes the damn wheels got stuck and Jon’s knees didn’t want to deal with that today.

“Sometimes,” Jon admitted. “I don’t actively investigate my past much anymore. Think I’ve rather … well. Scratched the bottom of the barrel there. I’ve found out plenty, though.”

“It’s really impressive, though. I mean, you found out where you grew up. That’s … you know. Huge.”

“Is it?”

Martin’s expression turned somber, and he looked down towards Jon. Jon wondered if he’d been insensitive. It was just so hard to know whether Martin was _bothered_ by the lack of information on his past. If he did seem to be in agony about it – well, Jon didn’t know _how_ he’d delicately put forward what he learned from the investigation, but he would. He recalled that Instagram photo of Martin Blackwood, Sasha James, and Tim Stoker. Martin had left an impact. Martin had had friends. Martin had _been_ there.

“I wish we actually knew each other,” Martin murmured. “Back then.”

_But we did!_ Jon wanted to shout. He hardly knew in what capacity, but they _had._ Martin had made an impression on his life, even if it had since been wiped away and replaced with something completely new. But that, Jon knew, wasn’t what Martin wanted to hear. Instead, Jon reached up and ran his thumb on the curve of Martin’s cheek. “I’m just grateful we know each other _now,_ hm?”

Martin softened at that. There was still something sad in his eyes. “Yeah, of course, that’s obvious. And now you’re _never_ getting rid of me, Jonathan Sims. I’m going to get – you know, I’m going to get your _name_ tattooed, just so if it ever happens again, I’m going to know that I was something to someone.”

Jon was laughing before Martin even finished, a bubbly sort of giggle that made it hard to speak. “Don’t do _that!”_ He managed to get out, shaking his head.

“Uh-uh. You watch. _Right_ on my arse. Jonathan Sims.”

“This is why we’re getting a divorce, Martin, I’m telling you.” Jon accused him. Christ, what Martin could bring out of him. It wasn’t like his life was miserable without Martin in it, but Martin had a certain talent for clearing away the clouds. He raised his hand and pinched Martin’s cheek hard. “Getting far too clingy already.”

“Ah, bite me, you tiny termite.” Martin’s voice was nevertheless fond. “I’m a boring man with a dull job, a tiny flat, and a _fantastic_ boyfriend.”

“You’re not _boring!” Please._ If his investigation over the past few days meant anything, it was that Martin’s life before – an assistant at a _paranormal research institute_ who then _burned it down –_ was rich and vivid, if not particularly moral. “Martin, _look_ me in the eye and tell me that you’re boring.”

With a huff, Martin rolled until he was on top of Jon, propping himself up on his elbows. Jon looked up until his eyes, framed by thick eyelashes. He felt that he could stare right into them, right into his mind, and – if he so wanted – pluck whatever he wanted out. All he had to do was ask. The sensation was _bizarre,_ the sudden power coursing through him. Something prickled in the back of his mind like static.

Martin’s smile didn’t falter. “My time is spent working, tidying my flat, and making sure every relevant governmental agency knows that I exist even though I don’t have a birth certificate. I am _boring,_ Jon.” He ran his hand across Jon’s hair, fanning it out over the pillow.

“I think I’ve had quite enough of you criticizing my taste in men.” Jon made himself comfortable underneath Martin. It was actually surprisingly cozy like this, like a small cave. He nudged one foot and brushed Martin’s calf. “And, as an aside, _you_ fascinate me.”

“Fascinate?”

“Of course. Mysterious, dependable, self-sufficient … _truly_ a force to be reckoned with.”

“ _Mysterious.”_ Martin got out a snort. “Yeah, okay. To you and me both, I guess.”

Jon wished that he were better at it. He had no idea how these things were meant to go (while he hoped that he would have had a better idea if he retained any memories before the age of 33, a sinking feeling in his chest made him feel like that wasn’t the case). Jon could list in alphabetical order the qualities that made him like Martin’s company if so needed, but would that _help?_ The only thing that felt like it would help was Jon’s continued presence. _Time._ And he couldn’t exactly hurry that up.

Instead, he reached up and pressed a hand against Martin’s cheek. He brought him down for a kiss, their chests pressing together. Jon’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’m here because I want to be,” Jon reminded Martin in a soft whisper, before a sudden moan from his laptop caught his attention. “Oh, Martin, the film. The detective and the witness are having sex.”

“ _What?”_ Martin’s neck snapped around to look at the laptop so quickly that Jon heard something crack. “They can’t do _that,_ it’ll bias the investigation!”

“For what it’s worth, the woman is so poorly written that I don’t think she would’ve resolved the case regardless. Think the witness will end up stabbing or shooting her in the end, though.”

“Cynic. I think he’ll end up being the next victim.”

“Not a _bad_ guess, honestly,” Jon mused warmly, watching the well-placed shadows and moving blankets onscreen. He had only been half paying attention to the plot to begin with, but thankfully, this film was designed for those who came for action scenes and sex scenes and only a passing interest in proper criminal procedures. Jon would loop back in during the final reveal, he presumed. “I think both their shirts are on. Look, it’s like Paddington Bear.”

“ _Stop!_ You _can’t_ put that image in my head, you’re going to give me a weird complex, I’m going to be walking by a toy shop and – “

“You were the one complaining about being boring, Martin.” Jon was nevertheless smiling to himself, especially with the way Martin’s entire body shook when he laughed. If that didn’t make him feel pleased to bits. Martin leaned on top of him a little more; he could feel Martin’s heartbeat against his own chest. Their rhythms didn’t line up, but every so often they would beat together, and for some _ridiculous_ probably poetic reason, that made Jon happy.

Martin was handsome, but Jon wasn’t certain he could express that without sounding trite or otherwise ridiculous. He liked the way Martin’s hair curled around his ears. He liked Martin’s smooth cheeks, liked the soft peach fuzz around his mouth. He liked the feeling of Martin’s body on top of his own – a weight, to be certain, but not crushing. Jon wondered how well Martin would take a request to lie on his back when his pain flared up again. Probably not well. Perhaps in time.

“What are you looking at?” Martin accused him fondly, turning his eyes from the screen down to him.

“Wondering who was the detective and who was the witness. I like to think I would have the moral integrity _not_ to imperil the case. But then again, I also wouldn’t throw myself at someone chasing a serial murderer. One must have _priorities,_ M-- _mmph!”_

Martin had swooped down to kiss him before he could get another word in. Jon couldn’t say that he minded at all. Instead, he folded his arms around Martin’s neck to keep him there. Martin didn’t pull away, only bracing his knees on either side of Jon’s hips to make certain – yet _again,_ to Jon’s weariness – that he would not lay entirely on Jon’s body.

Time passed pleasantly enough, with the relieving realization that the noises people made while kissing were _much_ more bearable when they were his own and his partner’s. Jon thought he may have been aware of that fact somewhere in the recesses of the mind, if it hadn’t vanished like everything else. He let his hands explore Martin’s body, fingers going to creep underneath Martin’s shirt and along his broad back.

Martin preferred to keep his hands in Jon’s hair, occasionally fully supporting his skull in his palms. Jon liked that – Martin took care not to tug, and other than the odd elbow inadvertently digging into his collarbone as Martin adjusted himself, Jon felt himself start to relax. He did rather like kissing Martin, he found. Quite a bit. Of course, Jon wouldn’t have expected anything less, but there were some few surprises – namely, the groan that shuddered through Martin’s chest whenever Jon scraped his teeth against Martin’s bottom lip.

He was being kissed eagerly, but there was no wandering hands, no rolling of hips, nothing that indicated Martin was aiming for _more._ For that, Jon was relieved. He didn’t really think he had the strength or patience that night to come out to Martin. While he was nearly positive that Martin would react fine to it (though probably _overaccepting,_ which was sweet but exhausting in its own way), Jon still partially resented the idea that he would have to have a Talk About Things.

People had a Talk About Things when they were diagnosed with cancer, or they needed to move, or they were announcing a child from a previous relationship. A Talk About Things was serious and, quite often, incredibly somber. Intrinsically there was some sort of negotiation element to it – and if nothing about the situation could be negotiated, it seemed like it was in the lap of the talk-giver to remain as meek and apologetic as possible, _sorry-I’ve-intruded-upon-your-life-this-way-but-this-is-going-to-affect-both-our-lives._

And Jon had never felt like his asexuality was anywhere near the magnitude. Certainly, he didn’t like sex. What of it? He liked being affectionate with his partner, he liked touching his partner, but the concept of intercourse was about as compelling as penetration via the nose. Why was it such a big _deal_ to people? Was that _really_ such a massive disruption in the relationship that they would need to have a Talk About Things?

Jon never thought so. And yet, there was nevertheless the feeling (rational or not) that it might be necessary. _How are_ we _going to deal with this, Martin, and how it affects_ our _relationship._ What else would he do, wait until Martin got handsy and blurt it out with their metaphorical pants around their ankles? He didn’t want to be placed in _that_ situation, and he hardly thought that Martin would either.

Jon didn’t do well with subtlety. He supposed he just hated the quiet assumption that sex would just _happen_ in a relationship when the planets aligned and the weather was right. That they were just waiting until then, but of course they _would, obviously, some day,_ that’s just what happened unless _Jon_ put a stop to things. He hadn’t dated before (well, perhaps he had, but it wasn’t like he’d know), but the presumption that he’d gotten from books and television and film and simply _watching_ people was that people were just waiting for the chance to have a roll in the hay.

He didn’t blame Martin for his sexual attraction (if Martin even had any, and perhaps _Jon_ was the hypocrite for assuming as much) in the same way that he was sure Martin wouldn’t blame him for his lack of it. Perhaps Martin would even understand the situation Jon found himself in, being gay and trans himself. But Jon was still not looking forward to it, and wished that he didn’t need to talk about it at all. Maybe he wouldn’t. He wished he could be certain.

He really needed to get more air.

Jon hadn’t even felt the strange tightness in his lungs until the thought entered his mind, and he dipped his head back from Martin in order to get it. Yes, perhaps the gasp he gave was _a little_ over dramatic, but it made Martin chuckle and that was all that mattered. “You okay?” Martin asked. When Jon opened his eyes to look at him, he saw that Martin’s lips were slightly swollen and covered in saliva. _Gross,_ Jon thought pleasantly.

“Fine, fine. Christ, my lung capacity is _terrible.”_

“Maybe you used to smoke.” Martin shifted to prop his head up on one elbow, as if that would allow Jon to get any more air into his lungs. “I’m glad you’ve quit, in that case.”

“Would certainly fit everything else I learned about myself.” Jon hadn’t ever let himself smoke. He wasn’t sure what that would confirm, and he _really_ didn’t need a smoking habit on top of everything else. “Though I can’t imagine tasting of coffee is any more pleasant.”

“Oh, it’s kind of hot in its own way,” Martin chirped. He used his free hand to place his palm right overtop Jon’s breastbone. Even with the smile still on his face, Jon watched some of the light leave his eyes. His thumb, still covered by the glove, brushed against the front of Jon’s sweater.

Jon quirked an eyebrow and covered Martin’s hand with his own. “What’s the matter?”

“I just … wish I could feel you. That’s all.”

_Oh._ Oh. Still somewhat sweaty and spun-up from their session on the sofa, Jon cleared his throat awkwardly. It seemed like the Talk About Things had gotten moved up uncomfortably early. “ _Um –”_

“ _Not like that!”_ Martin got out, his eyes going wide and shooting to Jon’s face. “I mean,” he corrected, “It’s not that – it’s just that I’m still not totally convinced you’re not ill, and while I really hope you’re not, given – um, yeah, clearly you’re – we’re – I mean, we barely – “ He let out a groan and leaned over Jon’s jumper, Martin’s nose digging into his chest. “ _Christ._ Forget about it, okay?”

Jon pursed his lips. With Martin’s head resting against his chest, Jon took the opportunity to raise his hand and part through Martin’s curls. “Sorry. Misinterpreted. No, Martin. I want to know. What did you mean?”

Martin was silent for so long that Jon had to debate hurriedly changing the subject. The credits were starting to roll on the laptop screen, and just as Jon formulated a convenient explanation – _oh, Martin, we’ve missed it! Shame, we’ll have to rewind and watch from the beginning –_ Martin sighed and leaned up from Jon’s chest to prop his head up. “Look, I’m not, I know it’s – I know it’s weird.” He raised his free hand and wiggled his fingers, all in the glove.

“I don’t have any feeling in my fingers. Well, my hands. My palm to the tips, all of it, it’s just … gone.” Martin was looking at his hand, now, as if there was something hidden in the fabric of the glove. “It’s good, I guess, that it doesn’t ache. I was doing some reading. It’s really common for them to ache after. Terribly, especially in the cold. And I can feel some pressure, too, so I can – you know, write, use utensils, all that. Had to relearn to, and my penmanship is terrible, but I guess I’m lucky, that way. Some people can’t use them at all.”

Jon’s eyes were scanning Martin’s face, trying to read on how he was feeling. His heart ached for the man in front of him. He knew about Martin’s injury – probably too much, probably more than Martin wanted – but he hadn’t known about the extent of it.

“Sorry. Not explaining this well. It’s, uh. It’s a burn. Burns. All over my hands. There were some lighter ones, on my forearms, but they all – didn’t really leave a mark, comparatively.” Martin’s eyes shut and he let out his breath in a long, trembling rush. “I don’t know what … story of everything, I guess. Woke up in a hospital. Couldn’t remember a thing.”

He had opened his mouth – because in that moment, Jon wanted to help so badly that he would’ve said anything. He would’ve told Martin everything, every last little thing that he knew, if it granted Martin an ounce of comfort or closure. The investigation had been (relatively) distant and impersonal, but Martin – well, Martin looked like he was having a hard time holding himself together.

“No. No, that’s a lie, er – sorry. But I say that so often I forget it’s a lie sometimes. I remember before that, too. I remember being on a stretcher. In an ambulance? And I remember _seeing it,_ seeing – I mean, what was left – and it didn’t even hurt that bad, was the thing? But the nerve damage had probably … was probably … “ Martin trailed off. An overwhelmed lurch had taken hold of his voice. He was still holding his hand up. “Sorry,” he finished instead.

“You – you don’t have to keep _apologizing,”_ Jon started. He raised his hand and interlaced their fingers together slowly. One by one, Martin lowered his hand until he was clutching onto Jon’s. “Christ, Martin. That’s … ungodly terrible. I couldn’t imagine going through that. Just _hearing_ it is - “ Well, enough to make him want to vomit. Jon wasn’t going to say that. “Terrible,” he echoed.

“I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I mean, I did. It’s just not a very – not a very fun sort of talk to have, you know?”

“I wasn’t going to be asking about it anytime soon. You didn’t _hide_ anything from me.” Mostly because he already knew, but that was besides the point. “But I am … Christ, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an unbelievable dickhead.”

Martin gave him a smile at that, though it wavered. “Jon, I have bad news for you.”

“Right, you. I’m glad you told me. It means something that you – you thought that telling me was worth … how difficult it was to talk about it.” Jon squeezed his eyes shut tight. “That’s not what I mean. You want me to know more things about your life, even if those things aren’t necessarily … _pleasant,_ and that’s – it’s good.”

“Yeah?” Martin asked, and Jon opened his eyes to look at him. Christ, Martin had such big eyes. The eyelashes were wet, but Jon hadn’t seen him shed a single tear.

“Of course I think so. And this, itself, I mean – I hate that you experienced so much pain, of course, and I hate the situation that you were in. But, the gloves, if they’re – for everyone else’s sake, I don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable – “

“It’s not.” Martin cut him off at the pass. “For everyone else’s sake, I mean.”

That made Jon tilt his head to the side, confused, as he stared at their intertwined hands. “Then what … ?”

“I know it’s not the healthiest mindset, okay? I don’t mean to be _rude,_ but … I know that.” Slowly, Martin disentangled their hands and Jon was left with the feeling that he’d said something wrong. “I wear them for my sake. I mean, yes, I’m sure everybody else would be weird about it. But I even wear them at home, Jon, whenever I can get away with wearing them.

I hate the way that they look. I _really,_ really do. I don’t want you seeing them – _I_ don’t want to see them. They make me feel terrible, they … they’re awful for me to look at. They just take me right back to waking up on the stretcher. So, I. I don’t. I don’t look at them.”

Martin flinched on the sofa, like he expected Jon to start arguing with him. Perhaps a piece of Jon’s brain wanted to. That avoidance was certainly not the healthiest route to take, that it probably wasn’t _healthy_ to constantly keep his hands in his gloves, that what did he expect Martin to do in five, ten, twenty years?

But the rest of Jon’s brain drowned it out, overflowing with sympathy and – yes, even some pity. He shifted closer and brought his hand to rest against Martin’s neck, pulling himself up to kiss him tenderly.

Christ, how terrible he’d been to Martin, and Martin hadn’t even known it yet. He’d picked and picked and picked his way through Martin’s previous life like it hurt nobody. While he had no intention of telling Martin (because now, he was sure, it would hurt more than anything), it was nevertheless a gross invasion of his boyfriend’s privacy. Martin wanted the past covered up. Jon wasn’t seeking justice or answers or even truth. He just wanted to _know_ for his own benefit.

Tomorrow, Jon decided, his hand on Martin’s neck, he’d tear down the dark side of the evidence board. Delete any evidence that he’d ever asked anybody about the Magnus Institute. Melanie King would certainly never hear from him again. The man before Martin woke up in that stretcher was dead, and Jon would stop trying to rob the grave. No more investigation. _None._

“You’re a really great guy, Jon,” Martin murmured against his cheek when Jon pulled away, and if the previous conversation hadn’t been enough for Jon to decide to tear everything down, that comment was a knife put through his heart.

“Well, what else do you deserve?” Jon pushed himself up to his elbows and then sat up entirely. “I’m just glad to have you in my life, that’s all.”

He was being hugged, then. Christ, sometimes Martin could hug him in such a way that made him feel like a ragdoll, with his shoulders bunched up to his ears. Nevertheless, he chuckled and hugged him back for a long while. Jon dropped his head against Martin’s shoulder, just enjoying the warmth of the man next to him.

“What do you say we find out what happened with the investigation, then?”

Stone-cold fear sliced through him, much more effective than any cup of coffee he’d ever drank. He leaned back from the hug, his tongue feeling much too thick for speech.

“The movie we were watching?”

“Oh, god. Yes, yes. Let’s see what’s become of our poor lovebirds who just tainted a serial killer case, shall we?”

They settled back to lying on the sofa. Martin’s arm snaked around his middle. Jon felt like he’d dodged a bullet, but – he could fix all of this. Of course he could. Martin, as always, had set him on the right track again. Settling against Martin’s front, Jon tried to get himself to relax. Yes, he’d made a mistake, but he could fix it.

And if he were lucky, nobody would have to know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Fighting, relationship drama  
> Eye-related horror  
> Losing self-control

The serial killer had been caught. The detective, strangely enough, hadn’t lost her job and her sexual relationship with the witness – though misguided – was just the motivation she needed to crack the case wide open. The witness was not fortunate enough to survive the credits, and instead wound up dead and found stuffed within the evidence locker.

Sometime toward the end of it, they’d developed a drinking game regarding several bizzare camera angles and the use of the words ‘therefore’, ‘critical’, and ‘justice’. It was a useful way to finish off the end of the wine, though it really hadn’t done much to help with Jon’s persistent grogginess. However, not all was lost, because Jon found himself in a beautiful middle ground of being tired enough, and intoxicated enough, to  feel  _ silly.  _

“Oh my  _ god,  _ you’re going to fall. I’m absolutely going to drop you, you’re like carrying a wet  _ noodle,”  _ Martin babbled in his ear. Jon knew that he wasn’t helping. He kicked his leg in Martin’s arms as he was lifted bodily up from the sofa.

His arms were thrown around Martin’s neck to provide an ounce of help, though his tendency to go limp in Martin’s arms probably cancelled that well enough out. “I  _ told  _ you, Martin,” Jon remarked pleasantly, “You can lift more than you think you can. It’s because the weight’s all spread out. See?” Another kick of his foot, and Martin didn’t budge. 

“I’m going to drop you, and Detective Isley is going to bring me in for the murder, I swear to  _ god,”  _ Martin muttered. He was under the pretense of being in poor spirits, but hadn’t been able to suppress a smile when Jon leaned up to kiss his throat. 

“Don’t sleep with her. That’s all I ask.”

“I’ll restrain myself. Okay. Just – keep your knees in, alright?  _ And  _ your head. Your head first, please.” 

Martin took a step forward around the coffee table. He seemed intensely focused on the situation at hand, but his arms never shook around Jon’s slender body. That was a relief. It had occurred to Jon about the time Martin had lifted him that a fall down to the floor would hurt very badly.

Jon was whisked slowly from the living room to the small hallway that led to his bedroom. “Feels like I’m in a bloody mansion, honestly. If we were in  _ my  _ flat, then we would’ve been in bed already.”

“If we were in your flat, you wouldn’t have had cause to pick me up. You’re doing great, Martin, almost there.”

The door would’ve led to some difficulty, if Jon hadn’t stretched out one lanky leg and pressed down on the doorknob with his toes.  The door swung open, yielding Jon’s bedroom, and Jon received a kiss on the forehead for his dexterity. 

Jon’s bedroom didn’t have the most comforting design in the world, if only because Jon didn’t spend much time in there. He had his bed, which was fine (except for when he’d shift too far during the night and smack his head against the metal backboard). A dresser, which was fine. A little closet in the corner. Two small bookshelves that were used as nightstands, and five larger bookshelves that filled up the extra wallspace.

There was a stark lack of sentimentality – and, of course, what would Jon put up there? For all that his conscious experience mattered, he was ten months old. He didn’t know most of his coworkers names. Meeting the man whose arms he was currently in was a stroke of luck, and – well, now that they were together, Jon supposed he had more of a reason to put photos of them up. That would be nice, actually. Jon understood with a jolt why people put up photos of other people in their rooms (excepting, of course, obligation).

He was being swayed a lot more when Martin entered the bedroom. “ Ehm, Jon, I don’t want to make comments on – you know, but you  _ are  _ kind of heavy?” His voice was hardly more than a series of grunts linked together.

Jon looked up at Martin, face flushed from exertion, and then down at the bed. A wide grin spread across his face. “Then drop me,” he announced simply.

“ _Drop_ you? Jon, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“It’s the distance from your arms to the bed. I’ll live.”

“Your _knees.”_

“Then don’t throw me on my knees. It might very well straighten my back out.” Jon saw Martin’s mouth twist, like he’d been unaware Jon was in any sort of pain and would _really_ have preferred to be told before he lobbed him around like a bag of potatoes, but didn’t comment on it. The snaking pain had returned while they watched the film. Jon supposed it was lying in one position for so long, as deceptively comfortable as leaning against Martin’s front had been. He looked up at Martin, eyes glittering deviously. “I’ll be fine.”

Martin let out a small sigh of a man who had been nagged into submission. “Okay. But if this is it, Jon, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Likewise.” Jon grinned at him, and then, with more of a _throw_ then a _drop,_ Martin’s arms were no longer supporting him.

He had been dramatic, of course. The drop was no more than a foot or perhaps two, and Jon landed arse-first on the soft comforter. He bounced once before landing on his back, collapsing into laughter. There had been a rather thrilling crack on his back from it, though. The bed dipped as Martin climbed next to him. “You’re a proper fraud, you know,” Martin accused. “You looking so mean, and you know what you are? A child.”

“I’m having _fun_ with my _boyfriend,”_ Jon enunciated carefully. Yes, there were some twinges of pain around his body, but Jon could ignore that for now. Those came all the time. He only rarely felt this content. “Bite me.”

He let out a peal of laughter as Martin flung himself over him, pressing a few wet kisses against his neck. Jon couldn’t bring himself to be _too_ annoyed at it – perhaps he would have, if Martin had actually used teeth against him. “Boyfriend, is it?” Martin asked in good humor. “Haven’t used that word before.”

Jon rolled over onto his stomach and arched his spine upward. He ignored the bristling anxiety at the back of his mind, the entirely natural sort that made him wonder if he was _rushing things_ along. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I like it.” Martin caressed Jon’s cheek once before leaning back up. “I’m going to go change, hm? And then I’ll be back. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

Jon was already making his way towards his pillow, getting underneath the blankets. Part of him thought that he might want to change into pajamas, but … the bed was very comfortable. And he had a bit of wine in him, too, and the lingering start of a caffeine crash. “Think we can split a nightcap between us?” Jon murmured softly, reaching out his hand and letting it drift along Martin’s arm. “To finish the bottle off.”

“You’ve got it,” Martin agreed. He reached down and pushed Jon’s hair back, before making his way towards the living room.

Jon’s eyes flicked towards the alarm clock resting on one of the bookshelves. It was 10:45.

He was asleep before Martin came back.

**

_Oh,_ it was too early. It was far, far too early to even consider waking up. Jon peeled his eyes open and stared blearily at the opposite wall, mostly out of spite than anything else. If he kept his muscles perfectly still, then perhaps he could fall right back asleep. Just for a few more hours. It was still dark outside, he could see that. 

He remembered tossing and turning a few times in his sleep, never waking long enough to remember it. No, he’d definitely moved in his sleep and elbowed Martin in the stomach, because he’d heard the low whine behind him, but that had been all.

Speaking of – where _was_ Martin? He certainly wasn’t holding Jon anymore, and there was no dip in the bed that indicated another body. No sign of anyone shuffling about in the bathroom. Jon rolled over to his side  and saw that his suspicions were confirmed.

More urgently, a spasm of pain snaked all the way up his spine and exploded in his shoulders like a firework. “Fuck,” Jon swore, sticking his face in the pillow. Twisting awkwardly combined with what looked to be a bad day for joint pain had not been a good move. Strange how the pain seemed to be radiating throughout his entire body, though. Usually it was localized to his knees, perhaps his lower back if he’d been particularly active. This was _everywhere._

He hadn’t been that active last night, had he been? Certainly making out with his boyfriend on the couch didn’t count as  _strenuous physical activity,_ did it? That would be depressing. 

“Martin?” Jon croaked out. Perhaps he could get him to bring his pills and some water. And – hell, he was meant to take those with food. “Martin, are you there?”

Nothing. Jon squinted at the alarm clock. 6:30. Well,  _lord,_ Martin wasn’t that much of an early riser, was he? He couldn’t have just …  _left._ Jon winced and pushed himself up from the bed. The other side was perfectly made. No sign that Martin had ever been there. How bizarre. Had Martin left for work already? Did he go back to spruce up at his flat? Well, he would’ve preferred Martin wake him up beforehand.

The only benefit was that now Jon didn’t have to think about worrying Martin. He let himself lean against the wall as he shuffled back towards the living room. Toast. Water. Pills. Sitting on the sofa with a heating pad on his back, and then, when he got up to it, a nice long bath. Christ, he hadn’t had  _this_ bad of a day for it in a while, but the doctor had called his prognosis ‘ongoing’, which had never been a very cheerful thing to hear.

Martin was sitting silently in his living room. He had dragged in a chair from the dining room, bizarrely enough, and was watching the hallway to the bedroom. When Jon tried to meet his eyes, Martin averted them. He was wearing different clothes from yesterday.

His urge was to make a joke of it. Martin could take the _couch_ if he needed to have a sit, and then perhaps a light tease about Martin leaving him in bed. But the expression on Martin’s face was … troubling. Between them, the air was tense.

“Are you … going to work, Martin?” Jon pushed himself from the wall to stand on his own two feet. Christ, it was like his _bones_ were clattering against one another.

There, he earned a change from Martin’s stony expression. _Confusion._ He tilted his head to the side, furrowing his eyebrows. “Jon, it’s 6:30. I’ve been to work. And now I’m back.”

“Six – “ Jon could’ve gagged. “Six-thirty in the _evening!?_ I’ve slept for twenty hours?” The idea seemed impossible. The only time he’d asleep for that long was when he initially been put into hospital, suffering through the barrage of medical tests and finding himself thoroughly tired out by the whole thing.

“Yeah. I couldn’t wake you.” Martin shrugged his shoulders, seeming relatively unbothered by the entire ordeal. “I tried, before I left for work. And when I came back.”

He wasn’t going to stand and ponder Martin’s seeming indifference. He could very well do that while sitting. Shuffling over to the sofa, Jon half-fell onto it and grunted hard in pain. In the back of his mind, he thought Martin irrationally annoyed because Jon had slept for as long as he did. Hardly his fault, that, he hadn’t had a say in it. Of course, Martin also could’ve had a bad day at work.

Jon got himself situated on the sofa. As he did, his line of sight naturally fell to the evidence board.

Photos and printouts stared out at him. Index cards and post-its and red string, all connected to a central point – the Magnus Institute. Or, rather, what it once had been. A regal old three-story building that specialized in paranormal research, before it had gotten burned down by one Martin K Blackwood.

“Was wondering when you’d notice,” Martin stated flatly.

Jon’s throat went dry. “I, I, I - “ He got out. “You’ve moved the board.” It was _stupid,_ a practical point of fact, but it was all that entered into Jon’s mind.

“Oh my god, you’re kidding. You’re not getting at me about … _what,_ exactly? Invading your _privacy?”_ Martin had stood up from the chair, now, and gestured angrily towards the board. “ _Yes,_ Jon, as it happened. I got back and you were still dead-asleep, so _yes._ I started rummaging around.”

“In my flat. And, what, then you decided to just wait until I woke up? So you could have some massive confrontation, is that it? Needed the _dramatics?_ ”

The awful truth of the matter was that Jon knew that he was in the wrong.

Of course he was. He’d decided to destroy the board last night, but how on Earth could he tell Martin like that and not seem like he’d made it up on the spot? Prying into Martin’s past wasn’t going to do anything but hurt him, and Jon had _seen_ that last night. He’d just been too late to destroy it.

But the fact of the matter was – Jon was anxious and confused. Sparks of pain were shooting almost constantly up in his spine, using it as some sort of highway to every other nerve in his body. It practically made every incoming thought shatter like glass when it struck. He was still worried about the whole ‘ _sleeping twenty hours’_ bit that Martin didn’t seem concerned about at all.

At the core of it, however, Jon’s entire body was gripped by the idea that he’d fucked up very, _very_ badly, he had no way out of it, and was trying desperately to find a way out. Not that he thought he’d be able to convince Martin of it, but that he could press a sequence of buttons in his brain and blurt out something that would make this _excruciating_ argument be over.

Logically, Jon knew that wasn’t good. That wasn’t fair for him or his boyfriend. But, as Jon steadily pushed his back further and further in the sofa cushions, he saw little other choice in the matter.

“Yeah, _sorry,_ I wasn’t able to wake you!” Martin didn’t sound very sorry at all. “But I waited around because we had to talk about this!” He had raised his voice, gesturing wildly to the evidence board. “Because, this? This, Jon? _This_ is absolutely _crazy._ Like, genuine – this is _creepy._ This is _terrifyingly creepy.”_

Jon’s gaze snapped to the evidence board, as if to refute that this was all perfectly normal, actually. There, Jon saw that something _was_ missing from the board. The Instagram photo that he’d printed out of Martin with his arm around Sasha James, with Timothy Stoker on the other side. Torn off, actually – Jon saw a bit of color adhering to the pushpin.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Jon kept his voice even and flat. “I was curious, so I looked into things. That’s hardly _illegal.”_ His eyes were nevertheless on the floor.

“Illeg – _no,_ Jon, I’m not calling the bloody cops on this, I’m asking my boyfriend why the hell he decided to – “ Martin turned towards the board again. Both hands were gesturing towards it now as Martin lost his words, gloves waving towards it. “ _Make me a detective case!?_ Christ, Jon, what _possessed_ you – _”_

That struck a tender note in Jon, and he couldn’t even put his finger as to why. Perhaps because the sudden bursts of energy and the absence of pain whenever he was investigating _had_ felt … well. It had felt like a possession of sorts. But that was silly. Possessions didn’t happen.

“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about.” Even, calm, cool. Jon imagined river rocks. A fresh coat of paint. The acrid taste of dry desert air. “This is fine. Why are you so angry?”

“Stop – for _God’s sake,_ stop acting like I’m the crazy one here! I just told you last night that I didn’t want to investigate this, and I come around this morning to find out that you’re – you - “ At Jon’s open mouth, Martin scowled and waved him off. “I _know_ you didn’t do it all last night, but the point stands, Jon, there’s very obvious _boundaries!”_

A particularly vicious spasm of pain crossed his back. Christ, it felt like electricity itself had intertwined between his ribs, shocking his heart. Jon scowled and stood on wobbly legs, if to relieve the pressure on his lower back. “You’re being _ungrateful,”_ Jon accused in a dour tone. “You had no _idea_ what your past life was. No bloody idea, and I come along, and I do it for you, and _surely_ this is what you wanted all along. To _know.”_ Jon rose his eyes to meet Martin’s face, eyes set in a hard glare. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“ _No!”_ Martin was properly shouting now, his eyes wide and set in a glare. “How can you even _ask_ that? Jesus, for one thing, I barely _know_ you – Jon, I’ve known you for, _what,_ three months? I’m not – just because I’m dating you doesn’t mean you can help yourself to every aspect of my bloody life!

And for another thing,” he continued, stepping forward in front of Jon. He was only an inch or two taller than Jon – but in that moment, it felt like a mile. Jon stared at him, feeling utterly frozen. “ _No,_ I didn’t want this! You want to know why? Because my life before was _SHIT!”_

Martin’s breath hit him square in the face with how loud he’d cursed, but that wasn’t all. “I had no family! No friends! I _reached out,_ Jon, I tried to find people who’d known me before, but there wasn’t _anything._ I didn’t even have any records at the damn hospital. Not even – Christ, no _coworkers,_ no _neighbors_ that would’ve cared about me! I was homeless for _six fucking months_ because I had to start from square one! The _only_ thing my life before gave me was _this!”_

There, and with surprising speed, Martin shed his gloves of to reveal his burned hands. This was the most that he’d seen of them, other than the quick peek he’d gotten while lying in Martin’s bed. Every square centimeter on his hands were burned and slightly swollen from the scar tissue. Jon wasn’t disgusted, but the reminder about how much pain Martin’s past brought him made him look down – though not before Martin flipped him off with one hand.

“So – _no,_ Jon, whatever you found out? I _didn’t_ want to know and you decided that you didn’t care about that. I’m glad I can’t remember my shitty, pathetic life from before. So – _s-so_ \- “ To Jon’s horror, he heard Martin’s voice grow thick. Jon felt himself frozen with shame and guilt, staring at the bare floor in front of him. “So _piss off!”_

Jon didn’t need to look at Martin to know that he was crying.  He heard the stamp of Martin’s feet and the swishing of his coat and the slam of his front door. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, in that spot, just staring at the floor. His limbs were frozen in place, still as stone. Jon wasn’t anywhere near crying – he wasn’t a crier, not really – but _god,_ he almost wished he was in that moment. Just to get _out_ the emotions bubbling within him.

Christ, he’d fucked things up. He’d fucked things up so _badly,_ and now Martin was gone from his life forever, and – well, god, he wasn’t even of the opinion that Martin had made a bad decision. Of course Martin would leave. Martin _ought_ to leave. Not even in a self-pitying sort of sense, Martin _deserved_ better than that.

Finally, Jon approached the board. In a fit of anger, even with the pain thudding through his limbs, he tore down every last item pinned to the board. They gathered around his ankles, curling upon themselves, until the board was completely bare.

And Jon hated himself for it, but it _hurt_ to see that, because it made everything he’d done so far _useless._ He had destroyed his relationship with a frankly incredible human being for an investigation that he hadn’t even seen through. And now he was in pain and _exhausted_ and … overwhelmed.

_You could at least see it through,_ a voice whispered in the back of his mind, so quiet that Jon was easily able to shrug it off. And yet, it returned.  _There’s still more to be done._

Jon couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t, could he? He’d just participated in an entire argument about why it had been a mistake, and Jon believed that. Logically, he knew it. Martin was probably walking down a London street in the dark, crying, all because of what Jon had gotten himself into.

_Exactly,_ the voice purred. It sounded smug.  _He’s not your problem anymore._

What an awful thing to even consider. Martin had never been his problem. While, yes, he doubted that Martin was going to be involved in his life from that point forward, he wasn’t going to _go against Martin’s wishes._ That was the least he could do for him. Jon looked down at the bits of photo and paper at his feet. The Magnus Institute stared up at him from a photo, as did Elias Bouchard.

But …

Jon crouched down and picked up the paper between his fingers.

This was more than Martin, wasn’t it? Bigger.

He looked down at the photo of what the Magnus Institute had once been. Staunch and imposing – beautiful in its own way, almost Gothic, but also with an air of ancient superiority to it. And Jon felt the itch, deep down within him.  _ One last go of things,  _ Jon found himself thinking. A picture of the burned lot of the Magnus Institute rested on the floor at his feet, and Jon picked that up, too. Probably wouldn’t be anything there. And technically,  _ that  _ act – investigating the burned lot – wasn’t an invasion of privacy. Was it? He was his own citizen. And – technically  _ technically – _ Martin hadn’t actually asked him to do anything. 

Jon supposed that he could try to rationalize it to himself all night along. The point of the matter was  that the  _ moment  _ Jon considered continuing the investigation, his brain cleared and his muscles relaxed. The rationalization was simply a corollary. 

_ One more thing,  _ Jon told himself. He straightened his back and walked back to his bedroom.  _ And if I end up getting myself killed while I do it – well.  Curiosity killed the cat. _

**

Jon stared at the chain link fence. If there were some sort of grand change to the burned-out lot that he’d seen a few days ago, he didn’t see it. Well. He had a boyfriend, then, and now he didn’t. That was it. That was the change.

The street was surprisingly sparse for quarter to eight at night on a Sunday, but he supposed that there wasn’t much to tempt people on this street. Some late coffee-drinkers were ambling in and out of the Starbucks, but otherwise, Jon found himself relatively alone on this side of the street. The nearby streetlamp wasn’t even on, casting Jon in complete darkness against the fence.

God, he hoped nobody would call for police.

An hour ago, the idea of scaling a fence would have been laughable, even on a day where his knees didn’t hurt. Jon would be the first to admit he wasn’t exactly physically fit, and probably never had been. Hard to imagine his pointy elbows and knobbly knees being anything other than a liability on a sports field.

And yet. When Jon put his fingers through the gaps in the chain link fence,  he was able to lift himself easily up – even without managing to get a firm foothold. 

This wasn’t normal. This couldn’t  _ be  _ normal, Jon told himself. He was a weak recovering amnesiac who had just slept 20 hours and hadn’t even thought to eat something before he left. Jon slung one leg over the top of the fence like he were about to ride a horse and then made his way back down. He wasn’t even out of breath. No, if anything, he was nearly trembling with anticipation. Almost like he was coming home to a fresh-cooked meal. 

It wasn’t the natural sort of Hunger in his stomach, no. Jon admitted that he could’ve stopped along the way to get something to eat if he had. He was wearing a black turtleneck and black jeans, which wasn’t the  _ most  _ unusual style in the world, was it? Jon had just wanted to look  _ somewhat conspicuous. _ Did this even count as a burglary when the residence in question was burned to the ground? Someone was still paying property tax on it.

Either way, no food had appealed to him on the walk over. Something inside him was gnawing for  _ something,  _ though. 

Jon’s feet touched dirt  and he released the fence.

The view on this side of the fence was not all that different from the view on the other. A very large lot filled with sooty black ash. Jon took a step forward. The buildings on either side had protected  _ all  _ of it from getting blown away by the wind, but Jon couldn’t imagine how much ash and wreckage the building had produced when it had burned down. The library  _ alone.  _ There was enough on the ground for Jon to trek through it, inadvertently kicking up black dust in a bitter cloud.

What had he been wanting to find? He leaned down and brushed his fingers through it. That sure was some ash. Anything useful had been burned or carried away, months ago. It wasn’t like someone had produced a written statement about everything that had gone on here and let it sitting there, waiting for him.

Something still pulled Jon forward, though, half-stumbling in the dark. The same gnawing hunger was still there, and Jon began to form an irrational hatred for the ground below him. What was he meant to do with  _ this?  _ This had been a waste. He could’ve learned so much, had there been a place to investigate – to analyze – to  _ Know -  _

The issue with a black ash was that it was nearly impossible to determine how deep it went. Jon had assumed, perhaps not irrationally, that it could not possibly be that deep after all this time. It wasn’t like there was anything  _ below  _ the basement – why would there be? This wasn’t the sort of place that would have an extensive network of artifacts, like some of the larger museums. This was an institute of education, not a pit of fear.

Jon’s next step went wide. He stepped forward into nothing –  and was caught too unawares to catch himself. Jon went down, flailing, disappearing into the black.

He yelled. He was sure that he yelled, but the ash blocked out every bit of sound and light. Jon shut his eyes and it made no difference, except for perhaps saving his eyes some irritation. Jon flailed and kicked his legs but felt  _ nothing – _ was this what sinking into quicksand was like? How could the ash possibly be so  _ deep?  _ Jon was pulled through it with no help from his own, trying to reach upward for something that wouldn’t come. He grasped out, he grasped up, he desperately tried for a hold  _ anywhere.  _ The ash easily partied under his touch, but otherwise, he was being dragged down, down, down.

Until he was spit out.

Jon wasn’t even aware of falling through empty space until he hit the ground, landing awkwardly on his arm. He could’ve sworn that he heard some sort of cracking noise, but after he cried out, rolled on his back, and sat up – the pain was gone. Just hearing things, then. Jon wiggled his fingers and looked up from where he had fallen.

He was in a room. There was a black hole in the ceiling – not that large, all things considered, but enough for a Jon-sized man to sit through. Ash was steadily trickling through it like sand. It spun in the air before landing on a giant mountain of the stuff that took up most of one corner.

“Christ,” Jon croaked out. If there as ever a more compelling reason not to take up smoking, it was the taste of the inside of his mouth right then. Jon looked down at his hands and saw that they were coated, and it was hardly like he could wipe them off on his ash-covered pants.

He stood up  and took inventory of himself. Jon had fallen pretty hard on the ground, but … perhaps it’d been a lucky break? At any rate, as Jon pressed against his abdomen and arms, he didn’t feel any pain at all. 

Turning around, Jon found that he wasn’t in a room at all. It would be generous to even call it a hallway. No, the most accurate term was a … well. A tunnel.

It seemed like the walls were all packed earth and cobwebs, descending into darkness quickly. Jon blinked and started down it. The floors weren’t dirt. They were something strangely smooth. Concrete perhaps, or linoleum. Hard to tell when it was so dirty and dark in here. He put his hand on the dirt wall to keep his balance, and found that whatever was underneath the dirt had once been man-made, too.

Tunnels beneath the Magnus Institute. But …  _ why?  _

A more pressing question started to enter Jon’s mind the further he went down. It wasn’t a question that he could verbalize, at first – a sort of general confusion that bubbled  towards the front of his mind. 

Being down here made him feel strange. Stranger than he would imagine a secret tunnel under a burned-up library would make him feel. Disconnected from the world at large, disconnected from his own body, disconnected from … humanity. Being down here, Jon felt like he had more in common with the tunnels themselves than the people that milled about up above.

The walls were warm to the touch as Jon delved deeper through. Certain patches of the tunnel were practically clear of dirt. One wall even had a sign affixed to it, nothing that CELL BLOCK A was to the ←. An old prison? Good lord.

He had no idea where he was going, and, after what felt like an age of walking, realized that he had no idea where he had been. The thought didn’t alarm him as much as it should. Jon had the sensation that he had a purposeful destination in mind, even if he wasn’t consciously aware of it, and all would be well. This was his Home, after all. This was a place of comfort for him. This was a place that Knew him. This was what gave him life.

Jon’s steps became less meandering, hesitant. He walked like he knew where he was going, even if his mind felt like it were in a daze – not a  _ daze.  _ His mind was clear but full of a strange sort of static that he could feel in the back of his teeth. Usually, such a sensation would drive him crazy. Now, it only made him feel like … well. Like he was drawing back a bowstring. 

Oh, he’d done so well.  _ So  _ well, hadn’t he? Things had been difficult. It was so weak, and it had once been the most powerful thing on earth. The loss was palpable. It ached to return to that sort of strength again. This was so much bigger than him. So much  _ bigger  _ than the Archivist. And he was still that, wasn’t he? Who cared about  _ memory.  _ Human. Fleeting. Memory could be Unknown as easily as it could be Known, and the Eye had about had enough of Unknowing. 

True Knowing could not be so easily forgotten.

Jon’s shoes tapped against linoleum, leaving a path of black ash where he went. This was no place for a creature like him, was it? Dark, damp. Full of worm carcasses and not a single living soul, save from the odd rat. No, Jon was not one for that, no. An Archivist had to find things to archive. No – an Archivist had to  _ be  _ an archive. 

And he held all those things down deep within him. He had tried to bring them out again, but –  _ oh!  _ Investigation. It was almost cute, really, so much as an ageless Entity of ceaseless destruction could find things cute. So much time taken. When he could just pluck things out just as easily. How much easier would things have gone if he could just yank it straight from their minds? 

_ The Panopticon,  _ Jon realized with a flash. Of course that was where he was going. That was where he was needed. It was so  _ nice  _ to be needed, wasn’t it? Where his powers could be at an apex.  _ Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.  _ Funny, funny. It was the right thing to do – not in the moral sense, because moral was tissue paper to humanity, but in the sense of two matching puzzle pieces. 

Yes, he would go to the  _ Panopticon  _ and the Ritual would begin anew. Jonah had been shrewd, hadn’t he? No need to create a once-in-a-lifetime Ritual. The Forsaken’s had been so expensive and easily wilted. I-Do-Not-Know-You was so laughably  _ obscure.  _ The Falling Titan practically a party on the high seas. But infect a man with so many different angles of Fear – well. You had that for as long as you kept it alive.

_You who watch and know and understand none –_

_Oh, look, Jon, you’ve still got it. You’ve always had a remarkable memory._

All would be set to rights again. He just had to get there, and say the words, and the new world would be sorted. As Jon stepped forward, his powers grew stronger, the static more intense. He would succeed where Jonah had failed – for all of Jonah’s talents, Jonah had been so very human towards the end. Quite ironic, but a fear of death was the most human thing in the world.

Jon had no such fears. Jon only wanted to Know what the world had to offer -and take what it would not.

He did not think about his own life, the memories that he’d forgotten. What purpose? That granted him no pleasure to Know. His own history was so weak. So pale. Jon took no pride nor shame in what he’d become; his identity meant little. He collected terror from others, and that was  _ all  _ of who he was.

He would make it so that the world would never recover to what it once had been. Not so hard, of course. The Eye would no longer hide anything from him. Obscurity, even with the best of intentions, bred doubt. Jon would be given more power than any Avatar had ever held.

His foot caught on something and he tripped.

A thunderclap of pain caught him once ( _ Christ,  _ that root had just lodged between his  _ ribs, ow)  _ before the static dripped from his brain, down his spine, and he felt nothing. He would have kept right on walking, but as Jon pushed himself up, his hand hit the  large red button on the tape recorder. 

“ Hi, Jon,” a familiar voice warbled to him apologetically. “If you’re listening to this – well, it could mean a couple of different things. Means you’ve at least had time to go through your bag, but I wouldn’t let you listen to this if I was around, and - “ The voice grunted in frustration. “This isn’t going well. Okay. Basically, if you’re listening to this, means I’m dead, and there is  _ no  _ non-cliche way for me to say that, but you’ve seen exactly  _ zero  _ movies, so … “ 

Jon paused in his walk. He bent down, and picked up the tape. He cradled it in one arm. Martin continued.

“I’m recording this … god, you know, time doesn’t really work anymore?  But we’re in Scotland, you’re having your, ah, let’s call it a bit of a ‘brunch’ in the front room, and it just hit me that I’m a big squishy mortal man and you’re … not. And I want to be prepared, because you don’t – well. I don’t know,” Martin sighed out, almost fondly. “You know everything, so maybe this doesn’t mean anything. But it  felt important, so. Here goes.”

On the other side of the tape, Martin took a long, shaky breath. Jon could hear something in the background – something mechanical and  _ creaky.  _ “I love you. Goes without saying, doesn’t it? But I wanted to get it down somewhere you could listen to it –  _ Christ,  _ you don’t want to have to listen to a minute of me rambling on just to get to that? You know, hang on, I’ll say it at the end. So you can just skip to the end and rewind if you just want to listen to me say it. God, that sounds cocky, doesn’t it? But I know  _ I  _ would, if you – you know. But you won’t. Don’t think you can.” 

Martin shifted where he was sitting, squeaking the chair. “I don’t know what’s going on, Jon. I have no idea what the rules are, what the future will be like, if there’s a future – if there’s a way to turn things back. But if there is, I’m sure you know about it. And if I die, obviously, it’s … I want you to turn things back. However you can. Whatever the cost.  _ Yes, yes, yes,  _ I know I know, you think you’re guilty and a horrible person and – whatever. 

I think you’re a good person, Jon. I really, really do.” There was a small chuckle on the other end. “Always have, actually, even when you’re being a twat. I think you make mistakes, and I think we’ve both gotten wrapped into things and duped and manipulated and – obviously. But you try so bloody hard. And if there’s any  _ conceivable  _ instance of the world being set to rights again, you’ll do it. Jonah doesn’t stand a single fucking chance against Jonathan Sims.” There was so much urgency in that message, so much  _ intensity.  _ Jon blinked a dozen times at it. “So, if this is a will, I guess, I want you to do that. Save the world.” Another chuckle, and then an exaggerated croon. “ _ My hero.”  _

Uncertain, Jon hugged the tape recorder a little closer to his chest. “I’m glad I found someone, in the end. I know it’s not all about  _ romance,  _ but – I’m glad I loved someone. That they loved me, too. That I’ll be remembered, after I’m …  _ not that I want you going on and on about it,”  _ Martin insisted. “Don’t stab yourself in your own grief. It’s just nice, that’s all. I’m grateful. And if I die, I just want you knowing that you are  _ so  _ important to me and I believe in you. So  _ much.  _ You just need a nudge in the right direction sometimes. Or, you know. A yank away from the wrong direction.  _ So,  _ Jon, consider this your nudge if I end up dead. And you better listen to it anytime you  _ need  _ a nudge.” 

On the other side of the tape, there was a farther away creaking. With a shock, Jon heard himself call Martin’s name weakly. It seemed to reverberate in the background of the tape. How strange it was hearing his own voice. He sounded so tired.

“Ah! You’re done already. Right, guess I’ve rambled on too long anyway, so let me just, is it the red button again – oh! Wait,” Martin stopped himself, flustered. “ _ I love you.”  _

The tape ended.

It wasn’t a perfect wake-up call. Jon’s mind was still clouded by an  _ other,  _ by a presence so much larger and more powerful than himself. But the sound of Martin’s voice reminded him – oh,  _ Christ,  _ right. He  _ was  _ a person. He did have an identity. A personhood. One that he rather liked, one that didn’t cause him any pain, and coming back down here- it would be the ruin of  _ everything.  _ Everything bigger than himself.

Jon kept the tape recorder under his arm and looked both ways down the hallway. A perfect map of the tunnels leaked into his mind – including the way to the Panopticon, but also where he had come.

Jon broke out into a sprint.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay y'all, this is the heavy hitter CW chapter. CWs are below and generally occur as a "flashback" which is in italics for most of this chapter.
> 
> CW:   
> Self-harm/suicide, partner betrayal  
> Arson, severe burns  
> Gradual memory loss, depersonalization

He hardly remembered getting home. He knew he had run – he knew he had attracted attention. And why wouldn’t he? A man covered head to toe in black soot, running like he was being chased, half-out of his mind with fear. It brought back terrible memories to the back of Jon’s head. Memories of waking up in a very dark alley covered in so much blood.

Jon still held the tape recorder. By the time he pulled himself out of the tunnels and through the pit of black murk (how had he _known_ which parts were solid? Where he could carefully rest his feet?), he found that he couldn’t recall where it had come from or what it _meant._ The strange fountain of knowledge that had poured into his mind completely dried up by the time he extricated himself, and yet, Jon couldn’t force himself to go back down there.

“ _Shit_ shit shit shit shit shit shit – “ Jon muttered to himself, over and over, his heart thudding in his throat as he fumbled with the keys. He felt like he was going to vomit, or otherwise pass out. Something powerful was down there, something with a very strong hold over him, and Jon had been about to – he’d been about to –

Do something. Now, he couldn’t remember. But he knew it wasn’t anything good.

He pushed open the front door and stumbled inside. His eyes had started to _burn,_ Jon felt like he’d inhaled a gallon of the stuff and it made it hard to breath. Jon saw little puffs of black whenever he coughed, and he wasn’t sure if it was just particulates from his clothes or … coming from _inside_ him.

Whatever was down there, Jon could still feel it in his mind. Still trying to pull him back. Still crooning sweet words into his ear, but Jon suspected that it was hiding a knife behind its back.

Wash. He had to have a wash, and to get himself _calm,_ and then – then he could think about things without feeling like he was losing his mind.

Jon tripped over the coffee table. He actually upended the damn thing, and Jon heard the splintering of wood as he flailed over it. Christ, he could barely open his eyes and _see_ , now, even if shutting them gave him any relief from the stinging pain. Jon ignored the throbbing pain in his calf and felt his way down the hallway with his hand on the wall. His shaking hand found the doorknob and pulled it open.

The tape recorder was thrown indiscriminately, clattering against the wall and falling to the floor. Hearing Martin’s voice – hearing Martin so certain that they would die – they were in _Scotland?_ \- Martin _loved_ him?

He found the faucet knobs and turned them on full, not particularly caring whether the water was cold or hot. Jon let his hands rest there for a full moment, hopefully washing away what remained of the Magnus Institute. When he could feel smooth skin under his fingertips instead of stinging particles, Jon cupped water and threw it against his face. Over and over and over and over. Water soaked the front of his shirt, splashed against the floor, and completely doused his hair.

A bath would be good next. He was just going to burn – _not burn not burn not burn,_ Jon’s hands tensed up and he gripped the counter so hard that he thought he might shatter his thin bones – _bin_ the clothing that he was in.

Hands trembling, Jon reached forward and turned off the sink. He looked up to stare at himself in the mirror.

The water had done some good. Jon could look into the mirror and see himself. Most of the ash had been splashed away from his skin, though the more troublesome of particles still clung in massive black splotches. A river of it seemed to be making its way over Jon’s jawline and down his throat, collecting at his shoulders. Jon looked half-wild in the mirror, his eyes down to simple points and his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The rest of his body – practically from the chest down – was covered in black, so deep that Jon could make out no details of his clothing. A man completely made of shadow.

Above him, the light flickered.

Even then, the room wasn’t plunged into darkness. Another light was coming from somewhere: the other side of the mirror. In Jon’s reflection, he could see a green oval of light somewhere behind him. When he turned around, though, he found nothing there. The overhead light would come back on again and the oval would disappear; the overhead light would flicker off and the oval would come back. It cast Jon’s reflection in complete shadow, but he _knew_ it was himself. Had to be. Same hair, same height, same general body features.

Jon shut his eyes and pressed his thumbs into them. _Stress,_ he said to himself, _is all it is. It’s just stress._

But good lord, how many things could he attribute to stress before he had to admit that there was something else going on?

“ _Do you feel guilt?”_

That was his voice. Jon hadn’t said anything, though, but – _it was his voice!_ What else could it possibly be? Jon opened his eyes and saw that the reflection in the mirror had moved. Just subtly. Its head cocked to one side. Jon realized that his hands were still up near his eyes, but his reflection still had them down at his side.

“W-what?” Jon asked, tripping over his own words. He brought his fingers up to his own lips.

“ _Do you feel ashamed?”_

It was his reflection speaking. Jon could see the way its shoulders rose and fell after it took a breath. And it was, most certainly, his own voice. Different. Lower, more deliberate, like the words were physical objects to be pushed around.

There was no reason to answer. No reason to have a conversation with his doppelganger, held in shadow by the light behind him. And yet, Jon’s mouth was opening. It hung there even before Jon could think of an answer.

In the tape, Martin had said that Jon _did_ feel guilty for what had happened. That Jon hated himself, even. While Jon couldn’t say that that was uncharacteristic of him, he … well. That was the trouble with everything, wasn’t it?

“I don’t remember what happened.” Jon had regained some strength in his voice, but what he gained in certainty he lost in volume. The words were barely audible, and yet, his reflection seemed to find that _very_ funny.

“Of _course_ you do,” his reflection accused him, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. “You can’t _forget_ everything that you don’t want to remember. It’s _your_ fault.”

That managed to strike Jon’s temper. “I _don’t!”_ He got out, louder. “I _don’t_ remember!”

But then again, when he’d been down in those tunnels, with that _thing_ crooning to him – he had known some things, hadn’t he? He’d known the exact recipe needed to do something very, very bad. And to make sure that nobody would ever be able to fix it. And he knew, because he’d done it once before.

Specifics, though, were murky. Jon wasn’t will.ing to go underneath the water and investigate, whether that made him hypocritical or not. What he had found out had been painful – but more importantly, dangerous.

His reflection chuckled lowly in the mirror, and that’s when it opened its eyes.

All three of them.

The glowing oval behind him grew more distinct, before cracking open like an egg. Underneath was a neon green iris, glowing so brightly that Jon saw it reflecting against the bridge of his nose. An endlessly deep pupil stared right into his very essence. The eye was perfectly still, but Jon didn’t think that it had to move for it to see all that it wanted to.

His reflection opened eyes that were smaller copies of the one behind him. They were no less bright, and no less threatening. “Your head is a terrible place to hide secrets,” his reflection accused in a voice as smooth as silk, “And it’s a terrible idea to lie to yourself. _Ceaseless Watcher,”_ his reflection intoned, and that was when he saw the eye move. Christ, Jon felt like he was getting _burned_ by the intensity of the eye’s gaze, like it would scorch and pucker his skin until he was nothing more than ash himself. “ _Let this creature Know what he has done!”_

And Jon Knew.

**

_Jonah_ _was dead._

_Even if he hadn’t truly wanted to, they’d been close enough that Jon had Known_ _Jonah_ _’_ _s_ _feelings as he_ _went_ _. There was a great deal of pain, of course._ _Fear, though not quite in the same flavor that Jon had become accustomed. Over it all was a sense of betrayal. Jonah Magnus had spent his entire life (and how long a life it was) serving the Ceaseless Watcher, only to get spat out when something more powerful came over the horizon._

_Sort of ironic, in its own way._

_The Ceaseless Watcher hadn’t even left a body. Jonah Magnus was dead, and had left no trace of ever existing. An inglorious end for a man who had tried to tame fear itself. It wasn’t that the Ceaseless Watcher had any feelings one way or the other; it’d be like asking a rock whether it had any firm opinions about its place on the riverbank._

_Jon felt that he, too, would be destroyed if a more powerful creature came to the Panopticon. Unfortunately – or fortunately enough – Jon knew that he was the most powerful thing that walked the earth these days. Competition was impossible._

_He stared up at the Eye. It beckoned him to join, to become the pupil. Wouldn’t you like to know, it seemed to croon. You have had so many blind spots on your journey. I See All. Come here, be my pupil, and you will know everything that I know. Come on over. Have a sit._

_Its soft, cloying terms were all a facade. It knew not of warm, domestic comforts – knew not of teaching and learning – knew not of friendship and love. It used them in the same way an angler fish might. Jon was no fool._

_To say that it was not tempting would be incorrect, but Jon was not going to give in. He had made a very conscious decision – a promise, actually. And he was making a very conscious decision to follow through with it. No matter what his senses might tell him. No matter what his body screamed at him. He promised Martin and there would be no getting around that._

_Oh, Martin was going to be so upset._

_If he had any doubts, it was that. He had caused Martin so much pain, so much distress. When he had sent Martin out of the room, he hadn’t known what he would be considering after. He had told Martin – rightfully – that he might want to step out, being this close to the Ceaseless Watcher taking apart Jonah Magnus bit by bit … well, it might not go over well. And Martin had made a face, touched the small of his back, and left._

_It only struck Jon that there was no other way after he saw Jonah Magnus be burned alive. Which left Jon with a decision. Hurry Martin in and allow him to make his last goodbyes, or … get it over with. Jon stared down at the knife in his hands._

_Martin was going to be upset. What was more, Martin would be angry. He would plead, he would beg, he would insist that there was another way. Because Martin Blackwood was a kind soul who believed that everything could work out._

_If Jon managed to convince Martin that it was the only way, Martin would want to stay and watch. Martin wouldn’t want Jon to be alone, because Martin Blackwood was a kind soul who never wanted anyone to feel alone._

_And then Martin would stay and watch him kill himself. Or, worse yet, Martin would offer to do it himself. Because Martin Blackwood was a kind soul who would drag himself through hell if it meant making someone else’s life easier._

_His fingers tightened on the handle._

_No good solutions._

_But if Jon could spare Martin from having just one more traumatic memory – to top off the traumatic life that he had left – then certainly he had a right. He’d spent this entire journey using the power of Knowing to destroy people. Perhaps he could spare Martin from knowing just one thing. It came from a place of love and uncertainty._

_If he had any luck, Martin wouldn’t have to see the body._

_Martin knew he loved him. Christ, he wished he was better with words. He wished he could pause everything just to curl up with Martin, smile at him, and lay out every single angle of his feelings. But he couldn’t. Lord, even with all the time in the world, it was hard to put his emotions into words. He hoped this gesture would be enough. He hoped Martin trusted him to know that Jon wouldn’t be doing this, if there were any other way._

_Jon looked up at the pupil-less eye. It was just flat green iris, staring blankly down at him. No focus. No idea of what was important. It was almost funny to think of the Ceaseless Watcher as stupid, practically helpless unless it had a conduit to focus with. Was the number of blades of grass in a field as important as a smuggled secret held for decades? The Eye certainly couldn’t say! Not without context._

“ _I am not your creature,” Jon snarled at it, and – before he could flinch and worry and overthink and fuss and panic and cry – shoved the knife home. Something warm and sticky welled up between his fingers, soaking them through._

_**_

_Martin had woken up crying._

_He was in the Archives, and – although he had no proof for it, yet – he knew what Jon had done. He had woken up alone, so of course Jon had … of course Jon had._

_Jon hadn’t even said goodbye._

_It wasn’t like Martin was surprised that it would end this way. He felt like he reminded himself every other minute of the apocalypse that there was every possibility Jon would have to go full-martyr at some point. The idea had pounded on the inside of Martin’s skull ever since they’d stepped into the tower. But he thought that Jon would at least … that they could make a thing of it. At least. Martin had no idea what he’d say, but he wanted to hug Jon and tell him he loved him and spend all the time in the world telling him how wonderful he was._

_But it had been snatched away from him._

_Martin couldn’t bring himself to be angry at Jon. God knew what sort of situation Jon had faced in there, and the idea of blaming Jon for_ details _when he had to consider killing himself – it seemed monstrous. No, but Martin was angry. He was angry at the world, and the Ceaseless Watcher could fucking eat it._

_Martin sat up in the assistants’ office. It wasn’t fair that it looked as normal. Well, normal enough. Martin hadn’t actually been here in a fucking age, since just after the Unknowing. But there were still desks and chairs and filing cabinets and computers – and Jonathan Sims was_ dead. _How dare there fucking be desks and chairs and filing cabinets and computers? Like everything was all hunky-dory? The wallpaper ought to have been peeling, the floorboards ought to have been coming up, every piece of metal should be rusted over. Because Jonathan Sims was dead, and it wasn’t fair that things were allowed to be normal._

_Hatred filled him. Hatred and anger. Fuck this entire bloody place, for ending the world and taking Jon away. Martin rose up on trembling legs and saw a small pile of fabric on the floor._

_Jon’s coat. When Jon had gone to confront Elias – probably killing him in the process, Martin knew even then – Martin had taken his coat. Christ, it felt so silly, looking back. But Jon obviously wasn’t cold and it looked like the coat was more of an impediment to his movement than anything, so Martin had dutifully taken it off him and replaced the bag on his shoulders and said he’d see him in a bit and to be careful, love._

_The sight of Jon’s coat, sitting there so casually on the floor, not rotted or torn or burned – made Martin see red. Jon’s coat had survived and Jon hadn’t and Martin was going to tear this place to the goddamn ground for it._

_He reached down and picked up Jon’s coat. Something full metal clinked inside of it. Martin reached in and found the spiderweb lighter, untarnished and shiny._

_There would’ve been a time when the thought of arson would’ve made Martin laugh. A guy like him, committing arson? Wasn’t that meant for people who did insurance fraud and weird guys who got off on it?_

_Martin went for the desk and got a handful of manila folders. They were cradled in one arm. Before he left, he caught sight of an aerosol freshener. Christ, but that one was old, wasn’t it? He’d gotten it just after the incident with Jane Prentiss and the worms, when he just couldn’t rid the chemical scent from the extinguishers. He picked it up, shook it, gave it a spray. Practically full._

_He was not an expert in fire. Martin did not know how to cause fires large enough to burn down the Institute, not really. But Martin was angry enough to learn on the job._

_Christ, he could feel Jon’s absence already, like something had been cleaved right from his side. Martin had to choke back a sob. It felt like he was_ less _of himself. Jon had known him so compassionately, and Martin would never hear his voice again. Never hear his insufferable chuckle when he was pleased with himself. Would never have Jon’s eyes on him again. And there were so many things about him that only Jon knew. What were they, now that Jon were gone? Smoke?_

_Tears streamed freely from Martin’s face, but he didn’t take the time to revel in it. He peeled the first folder off the stack and lit the corner. Before the folder could be consumed, Martin threw it in the corner where it struck the rug. Good._

_It was slow work, because Martin wanted to be thorough. Even burning didn’t seem good enough, not really. Martin wanted to tear down every plank of this fucking place with his bare hands and piss on the ashes, but because he’d probably get arrested before that happened – fire it was. Barely breathing, Martin lit another manila folder and threw it in Jon’s office. It struck the desk and went up._

_He repeated the action every few feet. At first, Martin didn’t see much more than smoke, which made it hard to breathe but wasn’t exactly conducive for destruction. He stood on the first step to the upper level, pointed the aerosol can at the hallway below him, and flicked the lighter underneath it._

_That was more like it._

_A huge burst of fire shot out, as effective and destructive as if Martin had a flamethrower on him. The walls caught, the ceiling caught, the floors caught. Martin watched the wallpaper start to peel away and the ceiling start to rot. The flames were licking the stair that he was standing on, and Martin made his way up the stairs._

_After a while, Martin was uncertain if he was crying from grief or smoke inhalation. The hopeless, helpless feelings had certainly gone away. Martin was numb. His face was solemn with every room that he went into, methodically lighting a manila folder on fire and tossing it on something flammable. If a room was particularly resistant, out came the can of aerosol._

_If this lasted forever, Martin would never have to deal with his feelings, would he? The thought was almost pleasant._

_Martin moved slower than the flames. By the time he got to the main floor – the floor with the library – he was readily aware that the building was completely on fire. A piece of the ceiling came down in front of him and Martin watched, as curious as if he’d spotted an unusual bit of wildlife, before moving on. He’d wrapped Jon’s coat around his mouth to breathe a little easier._

_God, the library had been especially nice to light up. Martin hadn’t even bothered with the folders on that. He had just pointed the can and sprayed and there had gone an entire bookshelf. Two. Three._

_All at once, half the ceiling collapsed in the library, striking and lighting up the other side. The fire had spread to the floors up above them. Good, Martin thought sternly. He probably wouldn’t have been able to get up there anyway, not if the stairs had taken light. Martin watched with the smoke surrounding him as a cloud of embers spurted up from the bookshelf. One of the large windows in the library spontaneously shattered, leading its companions to follow in a terrible cacophony. Outside, it was a beautiful cloudless blue day. How fucking dare the sun shine._

_In that moment, Martin would’ve set the sky on fire if he could._

_He turned on his heel and went back towards the front hall. It would have to be his last stop. His lungs were scratchy and it was getting hard to breathe, and while it was tempting to just lay down and let the flames take him, Martin kept moving._

_He hated burns. The idea of his body burning until his heart or brain or whatever simply gave out was horrifying, and provided just enough self-preservation for Martin to want to escape from this fucking place. Martin wasn’t seeking out pain. He was just expressing his own._

_The front hall was going to be tricky. Jonah Magnus had been a fucking pretentious bastard and done the flooring in marble. Even the desk looked too shiny, like it’d been polished with something that would keep it from going up. Martin shrugged and dropped the rest of the manila folders to the floor._

_He pointed the aerosol can at the walls and pressed down. Martin shoved the lighter underneath it. Great blasts of fire shot out. His knuckles were already burned, and Martin hated the pain, but the idea of giving up after everything made him hate himself more. Jon deserved this. Jon deserved an ounce of fucking justice for once in his goddamn life._

_The walls caught from the fire, spreading up quickly. Thankfully, Jonah Magnus’ pretentiousness had also led to him getting ornate red drapes for the large windows in the front, and those went up even faster. They caught the ceiling and the floor. Martin heard the delicious sound of wood splintering and supports suddenly groaning under too much weight._

_God, he hoped that this place burned to the ground. He hoped someone came in and utterly flattened the rest. He hoped nothing ever moved in on this plot ever again. He hoped that the earth could feel pain and would feel pain for every day until the end of the world for allowing a building like this to stand._

_Right above him, Martin heard a support give out. Some instinct within him made him jump back towards the front door._

_Burning wreckage rained from the ceiling a few feet in front of him, a blast of scorching air hitting his face. It looked like a bonfire, all piles of wood and smoking embers. The flames towered above him, forming an impossible barrier to the rest of the Institute. Good. Nobody was going to go in there ever again, because the Institute had swallowed up the man he loved and ended the world and it deserved so much worse than this._

“ _FUCK YOU!” Martin screamed at the fire, his voice hysterical and frantic. “FUCK YOU!”_

_His throat hurt from the smoke, and when he tried to shout a third time, he found that he couldn’t get in another breath. What the fire didn’t obscure the smoke did. Martin could barely see in front of him, and a calm, rational voice in the back of his head said that he ought to get through the front door before it went up, too._

_Martin backed up against it, unwilling to take his eyes off what he’d created for a single second. And then – he saw something through the flames. He heard something through the flames._

_A shadow of a man on the other side of the wreckage. One arm was up, partially obscuring his mouth as he coughed into it._

_Martin felt his heart stop. There was no mistaking him, not his unruly hair, not his narrow shoulders, not the shape of his face. Jon was on the other side of the flames, and Jon was alive._

“ _J-J-” Martin got out, rushing forward. A shifting from the wreck caused another gasp of burning air to hit his face, and he stumbled to a stop. “Jon?” He couldn’t summon up anything louder than a cracked whisper, and even that made him cough._

_On the other side of the flames, Jon lowered his arm from his mouth. He could see his face properly, now, illuminated by the light of the fire. It was him. And he was okay. Alive, but trapped on the other side._

_Martin didn’t even have time to think. “Jon!” He thrust his arms into the fire automatically, reaching out for him – he didn’t think about how he would get him out, didn’t think about how Jon would get burned if Martin pulled him out, he didn’t think about his own arms burning, even now – because Jon was alright and he had to get him. There was no option._

_A second passed. Pain shot up his arms and Martin yanked them back, crying out in pain. He felt like he shut his eyes for only a moment, but when he opened them again, Jon was no longer there. There was nothing on the other side of the fire. He hear d a support threatening to give above him and his hands – Christ, he was still on fire himself._

_Stumbling blindly, Martin pushed his way out the front door and onto the street. A crowd had gathered on the other side of it, watching the old library go up like some might watch a car accident. Martin stumbled forward, tripped down the front steps, and fell on his knees. He yanked off his coat and tried to beat out the fires on his arms, but the pain made him clumsy and weak. On the other side of the street, a few kind Samaritans started to run over to help._

“ _P-please,” Martin got out, just before he felt his vision going, “My boyfriend, h-he’s in there, oh god – “_

_***_

_Jon stumbled through the Magnus Institute in a daze._

_It was strange. He didn’t even notice it was on fire._

_He hadn’t known this would happen. Certainly, he had known it would be a possibility, but he thought shoving a knife through his chest would’ve eliminated the option forever. And yet, here he was. After he’d woken and gotten himself used to the whole ‘oops I’m not dead’ business, he’d pulled open his shirt to check the apparently non-fatal wound._

_A nice, neat little scar on his chest. It looked like it was months old, and frankly didn’t stand out from the other dozen scars that dotted his torso. There was certainly plenty of blood, though. His shirt was dripping with it. Ugh._

_But the point was – he knew losing his memories but remaining functionally alive, with powers intact, was an option. He had just sort of suspected that it would happen with the snap of his fingers. Wake up, no memories, how do you do. Part of him had wanted to embrace that. If Martin were there … well, Martin would take care of him. Martin would fill in the gaps._

_He hadn’t expected that it would be a gradual process. He hadn’t expected that he would be aware of the loss._

_Every single memory that he’d ever made was water in his cupped hands. Jon stood from where he’d woken. Almost immediately, he shrugged the bag off his shoulders. A tape recorder clattered to the concrete floor and skidded some distance, but Jon didn’t wast time trying to retrieve it._

_He started to walk. Rationally, Jon knew that he was walking so that he didn’t forget the layout of the tunnels while he was still in them. But another truth was that Jon felt like he was in a daze and needed to do something._

_He still had his abilities. Well, more or less. If he so tried, he could Know things that he had no right knowing. But Jon had a more pressing concern._

_Christ, he was scared. Where was Martin?_

_He walked through the tunnels that once held the prison. Jon passed an old worm carcass and remembered running here in a panic, with Tim and Martin by his side, a strange hive-woman beating feet behind them. Then he passed a second worm carcass and thought how strange it was, looked more like a long maggot than a worm, he’d never seen anything like that before._

_His destination was clear – get out of the Magnus Institute, find Martin, and – and then Martin could help. Martin would help. Christ, he had to remember just one thing. One thing. He could forget everything else, but if he got out of the Magnus Institute and found Martin, he would be okay._

_The tunnels smelled strange. Like dirt and decay, of course, but also … smoke? It made Jon remember Jude Perry, how she’d promised that she wouldn’t hurt and hurt him anyway. How surprised Jon had been – how naive, that a monster would dare hurt him after she had promised not to._

_Jon had put his hand up on the wall to re-orient himself and reeled back at the sight of it. Jesus goddamn Christ, when had he gotten that burn and why was it shaped like that?_

_He found the closest exit to the tunnels. A trapdoor to Elias Bouchard – Jonah Magnus’ – no, hell, of course it was Elias Bouchard, Jonah Magnus had died in the nineteenth century. Good lord. Jon shook his head and pressed up on the door, pulling himself up into the room._

_Thick black smoke filled the air around him. There hadn’t been much fire here. A manila folder was steadily pumping out black smoke in the corner of the room, but the carpet wasn’t sure whether it wanted to catch. He could hear the fire burning in the rooms around him, though. A low dull roar. Jon walked forward, his hand on the doorknob._

_It was blisteringly hot. Should have singed his skin. But it didn’t, and Jon had no fears that it would. He was the archive. The Institute couldn’t hurt him. If it did burn him, the burn was healed before his mind could even register the damage._

_Escape the Institute. Find Martin._

_He hoped Martin was alright. He hoped Martin was even alive. Hopefully Martin was. Martin had a spectacular way of making it out of things physically unharmed. After all, he was the only one out of the assistants who hadn’t died, wasn’t he? Jon’s heart still ached for Tim – and still bled for Sasha. They hadn’t deserved their deaths, either of them, and if Jon hadn’t been so foolish … if he’d just known …_

_What was he feeling so sad for? Jon tried to focus on it, but couldn’t put a finger to it. Part of him wondered if he ought to be evacuating the building, now, but for the life of him, he wouldn’t know where to start. He’d worked there, certainly, and Martin had, and … Bas … Basira?_

_He couldn’t remember now. But he and Martin had, and his goal was to escape the Institute and find Martin and he just had to cross his fingers for the rest._

_Jon walked through the flaming halls with sure feet. There were occasions when he even walked through the flames themselves, but he felt nothing but a blast of heat strike his face. Good thing he wasn’t wearing a coat. Had he worn a coat? Why would he wear a coat to the tunnels? Had he been somewhere before the tunnels?_

_He was losing memories so quickly. Jon knew that. Of course he had worked with people besides Martin, of course he had been somewhere before the tunnels. That was only sensible. And the idea that he was losing so much of it – Christ, that scared him._

_Jon reached the stairs and went down. The fire was all around him, now, chugging up the stairs and walls. He wasn’t scared of that as he descended, but privately hoped that the stairs wouldn’t fall apart underneath his feet as he reached the Archives. There was a door that that exited into the alley. God knew Jon had used it more than once to smoke._

_Nothing like the apocalypse to quit smoking, he thought to himself. Thus so ended a twelve … thirteen … fourteen year stint? How old was he? 32? 33? Surely he wasn’t any older than that. Any probing for his birthday was met with nothing, and Jon tried to stem down the rising panic, the low steady hum of SOMETHING IS WRONG YOU DON’T KNOW THE DATE YOU WERE BORN –_

_Easy to think of when he first started smoking, hm? He started in university. He knew that. Because – well, no matter because, he couldn’t remember because, and because didn’t matter. It was in university. In … England, somewhere, right? Certainly he hadn’t gone to university in America. He had never been to America. At least, he didn’t think he had._

_But he had studied something nice, wherever he went. Literature – if it wasn’t literature, it was something like literature. At least, he read a lot. He did read a lot, didn’t he? He liked to read._

_Or maybe he just said that he liked to read. Everyone said that they liked to read, didn’t they? Just because they were taught in primary school that it made people look smart. And you couldn’t exactly call someone out on that, could you? Hey you, yourself, prove that you like to read. Well, I can read, you see, so obviously I like doing it. You forget everything in school that you don’t like._

_Jon trudged down the long hallway of the archives, feeling like the world was closing in around him. Christ, he couldn’t remember. Best to avoid that line of thinking altogether._

_He passed by rooms. All the doors were open, showing offices. Jon had worked down here once. He didn’t waste time wondering which office was his. No, he was aiming for the door at the end of the hall._

_Escape the Institute. Find Martin._

_His hands closed around the metal latch of the door and he pushed forward, escaping into the alley._

_The alley next to the Institute was exceptionally narrow. Jon remembered standing with his back pressed up against the brick of the neighboring feeling, kicking one foot up on the Magnus Institute, doing something, what was it, with his hands – smoke? There was smoke. He’d been smoking. Perhaps he smoked._

_Jon stumbled on out of it. This side of the street was curiously empty. Jon’s mind returned the obvious answer – probably because this building is on fire and everyone’s watching it – but there was no alarm. Jon just turned and started to walk in the opposite direction of all the people. He knew how he looked. His hands and arms were covered in blood. Best to just walk and hope nobody called the police._

_He hoped he didn’t smoke. That’d make his grandmother sad, wouldn’t it – or – no, hang on, she had definitely died. At some point. Maybe when he was a child? But then who had raised him? His parents, of course. But ...no, they were dead, too. Weren’t they? Christ, he couldn’t remember, his childhood seemed a uniform grey blur until he couldn’t fathom it at all._

_This was all irrelevant. All these little details. He could cope without them. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would. The fact of the matter was that he just had to … do something … and find Martin._

_The other part probably wasn’t important. He had to find Martin._

_He couldn’t forget Martin, of all people. Perhaps all the details were fuzzy, yes, but the ones that mattered were crystal clear. Martin grinning at him. Martin brushing his teeth. Martin tangled up with him in bed. Martin laughing. Martin wrinkling his nose in distaste. Martin shyly leaning in for a kiss. Martin confidently sweeping Jon up in his arms and embracing him. Martin in the kitchen. Martin in the garden. Martin with a collection of coffee-stained papers in his hand, looking sheepish._

_Martin was his … boyfriend? Something like that. To be certain._

_Find Martin._

_Jon wasn’t sure how long he walked for. Some distance, certainly. He’d become aware that the further he walked, the worse he felt. He was hungry. He was exhausted. His tongue felt dry and everything seemed to roughly ache on his body. What’s more, Jon found that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t focus and Know anything -_

_Christ, he’d never been able to do that. He’d been reading too many science fiction novels and thought far too highly of himself, apparently._

_Jon didn’t have an end destination in mind. He scanned everyone’s faces as he walked along, but none of them seemed familiar at all. None of them were Martin, and he_ remembered _what Martin looked like. Of course he did. He was – well, he was a man, and he was his height, he was pretty sure, and …_

_And he had to find him. Jon wasn’t sure why he had to find him anymore, but he had to. Martin was the key to all of this._

_But Jon knew he couldn’t keep walking for much longer. Everything hurt, and people were giving him strange, bizarre looks on the street before hurrying away. Jon had to have a rest or else he was going to pass out, right in the middle of whatever city that he was in. Whatever country he was from._

_He found another alley and took a few steps in. He just needed to sit and think for a moment, that was all._

_Jon put his back against a wall and slid down until he was sitting on the filthy ground. He looked wearily at the stains that covered his hands and arms. That was strange. Where had that come from?_

_God, he was so tired. He just needed to rest his eyes for a moment._

_There was something he had to do. Someone he had to find. Someone important, in some vague way. Perhaps, if he took a nap, he would remember the man’s name. Ha! Perhaps he’d remember his own name. That’d be something. He tilted his head to rest it against a bin, bringing his knees up to his chin. He would take a nap. And when he woke up, he’d remember._


	9. First Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Panic attacks

Jon was on the floor in his bathroom. As soon as he finished speaking, he had collapsed. The reflection and the eye had disappeared, casting him into darkness. He couldn’t force himself up even if he wanted to, not the least the sudden pain that had gripped his entire body.

Comprehending what he’d just said – what he’d just _held_ in his head – was enough to make him break down. The emotions alone had been unbearably intense, and the implications that _that_ was how he’d spent his last hour or so before waking up without any memory at all.

He couldn’t force air into his lungs. All around him, he could just taste the ash of the place that he’d once worked in – that had once been _part_ of him. His lungs wouldn’t cooperate; Jon felt his throat burn like it’d been slashed. He had to get this under control, he just had to breathe, he -

He was _sobbing_ so hard that he couldn’t possibly get a breath in, his entire body trembling on the linoleum. Jesus – the statement had yielded many more questions than answers, but for once in his life, Jon didn’t want to know more. What he’d seen had been so full of horror, so full of _trauma_ \- that he regretted even knowing the little he did.

_Relax,_ Jon forced himself to think. Relax. He had to breathe. He to get up, pull himself together, and move on.

The front door to his flat slammed, making Jon flinch hard. Christ, what _now?_ On top of everything else, what now?

He covered his hands with his face. This was exactly what he needed. A burglar. Or perhaps a serial killer, coming to murder him at the most _inconvenient_ time in his entire life. He doubted that any potential serial killers would be kind enough to let him finish his panic attack before killing him.

Or perhaps this _was_ an actual heart attack. It certainly felt like someone was pressing down on his chest – and he couldn’t really feel anything except for static in his extremities. Jon forced himself into a crouched position on his hands and knees, trying to force himself up. He couldn’t, and instead fell onto his side trembling.

“Jon?” The voice was exhausted, cautious – and undeniably belonging to Martin Blackwood.

Jon went still. He would’ve preferred the serial killer.

“ _I’m –”_ It didn’t matter whatever excuse he was going to give, because he didn’t have enough air to get it out anyway. Jon was suddenly vividly reminded of the broken coffee table in the living room – as well as the tracks of ash that he was sure he made on the way into the bathroom.

“ _Shit! Jon!?”_

Martin’s feet thudded through the apartment. Jon supposed that he’d let behind a very neat trail to follow.

_Christ,_ after what had gone on between them, Jon couldn’t let himself be seen like this. Jon tried hard to shift onto his hands and knees again, but he couldn’t even manage that much. Certainly nowhere near high enough to be able to lock the bathroom door behind him. He fell again with a rush of breath, curling up in the fetal position. Martin would have to find him where he lay, because the black spots in his vision weren’t going to grant him any favors.

He just set his cheek on the cold, dusty linoleum. The bathroom door opened, and the gasp that Martin made would etched on his memory for as long as it remained reliable. _That’s the man you love,_ Jon reminded himself dimly, _Remember? The man you were supposed to find?_

“Oh my _god – “_

Martin was on his knees beside him, touching him at his shoulders, his neck, his back. “Do you need me to call someone!? _Christ,_ what’s that you’re just _covered_ in!?”

Jon couldn’t answer, brought down to weakly wheezing against the linoleum. At Martin’s first question, though, he just shook his head. The idea of people rushing into his flat – putting him in an ambulance – carrying him somewhere things were loud and bright and crowded – nearly made him retch against the floor. As it was, he shuddered and choked on his own gasped breath.

Martin’s hands were frantic on his shoulder, darting this way and that like he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. Jon wouldn’t have blamed him if he _had_ called for help, just to do something. And then, Martin’s hands stilled on his shoulder. He heard Martin take in a deep breath himself and then push himself to a standing position.

Martin turned on the shower. Jon flinched – _god,_ no, no, he couldn’t move from this spot, he couldn’t breathe as it was, adding water into the mix was just asking for something terrible to happen. He’d practically drown in there.

“Jon.” The voice was calm and strong. “We’re going to get you through this. Gonna count to ten. You try and focus your breathing on that, okay?” In that moment, a blistering bolt of anger struck through Jon – _I can’t fucking breathe and I don’t think counting is going to solve that, Martin! -_ but he mercifully held his tongue. He only nodded. He would try. “We’ll take it slow. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Can you, can you,” Jon whispered out, before extending one arm to lay against the linoleum floor, palm up. He hoped that the implication was clear. He was pretty sure most recommended against excessive physical contact with someone having a panic attack so as not to overwhelm them, but Jon _needed_ the physical reassurance. And maybe it was unfair to Martin, to ask for his hand to be held during all of this, but if it was – Jon was going to ask anyway.

Without commenting on it, Martin reached forward and wrapped his hand around Jon’s own. He squeezed it so tightly that it was painful, but Christ, was it ever a reminder that Martin was there. “Try and count with me if you can, okay?” Martin asked, and again Jon nodded.

The first count to ten had been dreadful. Jon didn’t do much more than mouth the words out with Martin, his breath coming in hitches and whimpers. The second count to ten had done a bit better. Jon was clearing his mind. The awful _vision,_ that window into the past, seemed further and further away. Martin was here and in the present, and yes, he’d been in that vision, but he’d been _different._ He’d been a man that Jon didn’t know.

This Martin was here. And yes, soon he would be out of Jon’s life forever, but compared to what he had just seen? Jon could handle that idea a lot easier.

The third count to ten was the slowest of all, with each number drawn out excruciatingly slow. It was then that Jon found his rhythm was breathing. He wasn’t sure if it was possible to bruise a lung from breathing too hard, but his chest ached. _Everything_ ached, but the lungs did like to make themselves known upon every inhale. Martin stopped after the third count, and they just sat in silence. Martin held Jon’s hand and Jon breathed on the linoleum floor, the scent of ash in his nostrils and the taste of ash in his mouth.

Jon finally shut his eyes. He heaved a large breath – a sigh of exhaustion. God, now he just wanted to sleep, but getting off the floor was going to require energy that he didn’t have.

Martin’s other hand was brushing his dusty, sticky hair out of his eyes. “I’m going to get you in the shower, alright? We need to get this stuff off you. Just – I don’t know. Let me know if you don’t like that idea.”

Jon did like that idea, as a matter of fact. The ash felt like some sort of protective suit, and he wanted it off of him as soon as possible. But then Martin dropped his hand and his arms went around Jon’s body, intending to pick him up and _carry_ him. Jon let out a noise of protest at that, instead sliding his arm around Martin’s waist. He was not going to be carried here. A crutch would be fine. Martin got the message and let Jon limp.

Even in the back of his weary mind, Jon didn’t want to cause any more trouble for Martin. The amount of trouble he’d caused so far – both in his life and the past one – made him want to cry. Yes, each step was painful and slow and probably generally not medically recommended, but at least he was _trying,_ wasn’t he?

They reached the shower and Martin opened the little glass door to open it. And, for a second, they both just stood there awkwardly. Jon was fully clothed. The idea of yanking his sweatshirt and his undershirt off, not to mention his pants and underwear and socks and shoes, was unthinkable.

“Here, go have a sit. I’ll take care of it,” Martin obliged, and Jon didn’t know what he meant by it, but he trusted him. Using the side of the glass door as leverage, Jon stepped into the shower and sat down.

The water was nearly scalding hot but Jon had never wanted to be disinfected so badly in his life. He shut his eyes to avoid the black streaks running from his hair to his face and then down. Slumping against the tile wall, Jon thought at first that Martin was just going to let him shower in his clothing (not ideal, but fine) before he felt another person step into the shower and kneel down next to him.

Jon cracked his eyes open. Martin had taken off his socks and shoes, his coat and trousers. He was left in a thin t-shirt, a pair of boxers, and his gloves. The shirt was soaked through within a second of Martin getting under the spray, and it only took two seconds for Martin’s curly hair to get plastered onto his head.

Martin’s hands were on him, gingerly manipulating his clothing so that they could come off with the least amount of movement possible. It was slow – and still, Jon winced and let out a grunt of pain when Martin undid the zipper on his jeans and pulled them down.

But finally, it was done. Jon wasn’t sure what Martin’s plan was, there. Was he planning to leave the shower soaking wet? Jon wasn’t sure if he like that so much. Although he was breathing more regularly, he was so exhausted that he had serious concerns about falling on his side and drowning (he was not willing to put his life in the hands of whoever did the drain plumbing for his flat, that’s for sure). His question was answered when Martin sat beside him. Martin stretched out his legs as much as possible and rested his back against the tile.

Feeling vulnerable (and not entirely from being nude in the shower with his clothed ex-boyfriend), Jon opened his eyes to look at him. Martin had tilted his head back against the wall, his own eyes shut. He supposed the shock and fear was wearing off from him, too.

Jon didn’t know how to word how grateful he was. He didn’t know why Martin was here. He didn’t know why Martin had stayed to help (Martin was a kind soul, but this was _really_ something exceptional). He didn’t know what was going on through Martin’s mind. But god, Jon suddenly understood the feeling he had gotten back with the statement – that Martin needed a fucking _break_ once in his life.

He slumped to the side, against Martin’s body. Martin opened one eye to look down at him and then raised his arm to lay across Jon’s shoulders. Neither spoke a word. The only sound in Jon’s flat was the showerhead and the occasional gurgle of the drain.

It was too hot to really be comfortable, but that only made Jon feel like every last bit of the Magnus Institute was being washed away from him. The spray struck his hair first and managed to drip along the rest of his body. He didn’t have the energy to check his nails, behind his ears. He just sat against Martin, relaxing by inches.

The water turned from hot to warm to lukewarm to just north of chilly, but Jon had already started to drift off. His brain had went to overdrive and now felt like it was checking out for repairs. He felt Martin nudge him. A soft question reached his ear; Jon could only presume that it was whether he wanted to get out. Jon hummed in compliance, and then sank below consciousness.

**

Jon’s blankets were tucked underneath him. He only realized when he started to come to, wriggling against the covers, and found himself practically _swaddled_ in his own bedding. God, he must have slept like the dead. He certainly felt like it. His mouth was achingly dry and his limbs were made of lead. It took him the better part of ten minutes to finally push himself to his elbows, taking stock of his alarm clock. Dimly remembering that now he was just the sort of man who slept for entire days at a time, Jon paid attention to the AM/PM demarcation.

Late in the evening. Right.

He slid himself out of bed. The robe that he found himself in would do for now; Jon didn’t suspect that he’d be heading out unless he absolutely had to. His legs were creaky. A quick glance at his face in his bedroom mirror indicated that while most of the ash had been washed away, there were still covert streaks hidden in his hairline, the crevices of his ear, his nostrils. _God._ A proper scrub was in order.

Later. For now – it was at least a day after everything had happened. Other things had to be dealt with. Feeling vulnerable, Jon held his elbows in front of his chest and wandered out into the kitchen. He was stiff and sore, but not actively aching yet.

Martin was sitting on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, looking at something on his phone. A mug of steaming tea was out in front of him, the tendrils curling up towards the ceiling. He hadn’t even taken his jacket off.

“Martin?” Jon asked from the hallway.

Martin made a noise of being discovered, like he’d been caught out doing something naughty, and put his phone to the ground. “ _Hey,”_ he soothed, but there was something sad written all over his face. “How are you feeling?”

What a way to respond to that. He was breathing, which put him leaps and bounds better than the breakdown Martin had helped him through on the door. _Thank him, you idiot,_ Jon ranted in his head. _Thank him. Tell him you’re grateful. Tell him he’s wonderful._ “Taxidermied,” Jon joked, and Martin – for his credit – let out a polite titter.

They stared at one another, Jon in the hallway, Martin on the sofa. Neither of them spoke a word.

Martin was in his work clothes. Were they the same ones he’d worn yesterday? Jon hadn’t _really_ been paying attention, honestly, but the idea that Martin might’ve spent all day in his flat – brooding, rationalizing – was a frightening one indeed. _Just tell him you’re sorry. Tell him. Tell him._

And finally, Jon managed to get the words out. “Martin, Christ, I’m so sorry,” he got out as if it were pulled from him. “I had no intention for letting you see all that, really, I just – lost myself.”

Martin’s expression turned to one of confusion. “What? I don’t _care_ about seeing you like that, Jon, you were going through something. I’m not, like – _irritated_ that you fell to pieces in front of me or anything. I just – “ He raised his hand and passed it through his curls, ruffling them terribly. “What the hell _happened?”_

Jon’s gaze ping-ponged between the now-empty evidence board and his (ex?) boyfriend sitting on the couch a few times. “Um,” he considered. He didn’t want to sound _pedantic,_ but it was a complicated decision to make. “Do you … really want to know?”

Martin scoffed. “I know _generally_ what happened, Jon, I’m not an idiot. My boyfriend gets all obsessed with a place I burned down and shows up covered in ash, I’m not Sherlock Holmes but I’m not _totally_ clueless. But, like, what … _happened?”_ Another gesture, this time towards Jon’s entire personage.

Jon knew what he meant. And still, his question stood. “Martin.” His voice was softer, now, his grip looser on his arms. “Do you really want to know?”

After all, Martin had seemed to be in genuine _distress_ when he had seen the evidence board. A large part of that was doubtlessly due to Jon’s prying, of course, but … not all of it. Part of it had just been the horror at discovering bits of the life that he’d forgotten. And _vividly_ didn’t want to remember.

Martin seemed to understand. He wrestled with the idea, biting his lip, looking like he was about to say several things – and then relenting with a sigh. His gaze turned to the floor. “I guess not.” He looked down at his gloves. “You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” That, at least, Jon was certain of. He wouldn’t be embarking on any reminiscing about what he had envisioned, but – _Christ,_ it had been horrifying. It was just the kick he needed to put an end to this, once and for all. No more investigating. No more graves to dig up. No more investigations. “Wh – sorry, but can I ask why you were there in the first place? Not, I mean – when I was in the bathroom, having my … moment.” After all, it wasn’t like Martin _lived_ there, and it’d been late. Hours, even.

Martin slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. He stared steadily across the apartment, at the blank evidence board. “Well, after we … you know. After we fought, I went to go clear my head.” Jon tried to do the calculations in his head for how long Martin had walked for, and fell short. Noting the time hadn’t been his highest priority. “And it got to the point where I thought that we might need to talk. Clear the air. So I came back. I knocked on the door, and it was just … _open?_ It wasn’t even shut the whole way.”

Ah. Jon winced.

“And I got worried, came in, and … you know the rest, I guess. I put you to bed, waited until morning, went home, then to work. Came by right after. I wanted to be there when you woke up, in case …” There, Martin trailed off. Jon understood. God only knew what Martin thought had happened to him in the ashes of the Magnus Institute, but he _seriously_ doubted that Martin thought correctly.

“Right.” Something – it wasn’t _amusing,_ of course, but it was nevertheless something that made Jon’s heart warm. “You went to work?”

“I mean.” Martin shuffled his feet. “Yeah? I – I guess I could’ve called off. But I didn’t really know what else to do, and … “ Thoroughly against his own will, the corner of Martin’s lip turned up. “I couldn’t tell you a single thing I did at work today, honestly. Just a gray blur.”

His legs were starting to protest. Jon joined Martin on the couch, giving him a respectable few feet of distance. Christ, he’d perch on the back like some sort of invading pigeon if he thought it would make Martin more comfortable. “Thank you,” he whispered, and he couldn’t say what for. Everything, including what Martin didn’t know.

Martin let out a breathy, awkward chuckle next to him. “Any time.”

Another long, awkward pause came between them. Martin even pointedly looked away, utterly _fascinated_ with the trim on Jon’s walls. Jon didn’t blame him, except he knew _exactly_ what he had to do, here. It was the reason Martin had come over in the first place, after all.

Compared to what he’d seen in his bathroom mirror, it seemed almost _laughably_ meaningless. Christ, he’d stabbed himself in the chest and Martin had burned down a building – who _cared_ about relationship drama?

And yet, that felt considerably less personal than this did. He didn’t know who the Archivist had been. He did know who he was. That was watching a film, this was … something else entirely.

“Do you want to talk about it now?”

“Jon – “ Martin cut himself off brusquely, shaking his head. “I’m not going to make you do that. Like, yeah. We _are_ going to have to talk about it at some point, but you had a bad night. Day. 23 hours.”

“You’re not making me do anything. In fact, I don’t think you’ve made me do anything in your entire …” Well, he couldn’t say that, could he? Only knowing such a small snippet of it. Jon’s voice faded, before he shook his head and put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. He wanted to take his hand, but decided against it. No need to make things more difficult. “We can talk about it.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Martin heaved a large breath, then, not staring at Jon. Christ, did that hurt. “What were you thinking, Jon? Seriously, I can understand you being curious, but there’s _limits._ You didn’t even ask.”

“I didn’t think you would tell me anything if I did. And it started with … well, like you said. Curiosity.” Jon joined Martin’s stare at the blank evidence board. “Then I found the burned lot, and I saw your hands, and I suppose that the curiosity grew into something else.” Jon had to wince. “It became something difficult to ignore. It was the only time I felt happy, comfortable. _Productive._ Everything else became background noise. When I wasn’t looking into it, I could only focus on how terrible I felt. It sounds monstrous to say that it wasn’t personal, that _you_ hardly factored into it, but there it is. I never made any moral judgments about you because of it. Could’ve been any bloke off the street.”

He tried to speak carefully, to choose every word and say it in a gentle tone. He’d taken his hand off Martin’s shoulder, and now his hands rested useless in his lap. God, he wanted Martin to say something so badly that it almost made him angry Martin wasn’t.

“You really hurt me, Jon.”

“I know. I’m so _sorry,_ Martin. If I had sat down for one minute to really think about how it’d hurt you, finding out – “

“Would you have stopped?”

To that, Jon had to hesitate. The obvious, feel-good answer was there. _Of course I would have, darling, I’d have bared my heart to you immediately and we would’ve embraced and fallen into bed together._ “I don’t know. Towards the end, probably not. I mean, lord. We broke up and I went rushing to literally jump in the ashes.” He leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees, using his forefinger and thumb to fidget with his lower lip. “Something ironic in that, isn’t it?”

“Why did you, then?”

“I suppose I considered – well. What was the point? I could hardly make things _worse._ Make you feel _more_ betrayed.”

Martin let out a noise of understanding. Jon could see out of the corner of his eye that Martin was fidgeting with his jacket, with the fabric covering his knees, with the couch cushion. Jon kept going. “If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, Martin, anything at all, I’m not asking for … Christ, I’m not asking for you to _forgive_ me, but I would do anything to make you feel better.”

“I’m not asking you to flagellate yourself, Jon. I don’t want you to suffer just because you hurt me, that’s … that’s not good, either. It does mean something, you saying that you’re sorry.”

“It isn’t just words?”

“Of course it’s not _just_ words. You’re not a liar, and I believe you. And, I’m not saying I’m glad for this, but if _you’re_ looking to suffer to make yourself feel better about all this – I think you already have. With whatever you found there.”

Jon couldn’t muster up an answer to that.

Martin stopped fidgeting with the couch cushion. Slowly, deliberately, he reached over and put his hand on top of Jon’s. Jon flipped his palm to slide his fingers onto Martin’s.

“I don’t want to end things. I’ve thought about it. Feels like I’ve gone through every single scenario in my head and – and I don’t _know_ what the right answer is.” Jon could hear the frustration in Martin’s voice, that things hadn’t piled up neatly on one side of the pro/con list. “But, Jon, meeting you changed _everything_ in my life. And I – I think I’d really regret it, if you were suddenly _gone_ like that.”

Jon hadn’t really thought about the emotional impact of it, himself. But now – _Christ._ What would he do without Martin there? Martin, the only man in the world who seemed to really understand him. Jon’s investigation had widened the divide between them, perhaps, but the point remained.

“I’d be devastated, on my end,” Jon murmured.

“Good. So – uh – right. Good.” Martin gave their hands a little twitch on the couch. “We’re not broken up.”

“No. Glad for it, too. And – I don’t know if it helps. But I _did_ have every intention to stop it, when you told me about … what happened to you.” Jon gestured with his chin towards the blank evidence board, at the papers curled on the floor. “I can’t say with an absolute certainty that I would’ve followed through with it, but your feelings do _matter_ to me, Martin. Your safety, your comfort – all of it.”

“Yeah, it does help.” Martin didn’t laugh so much as exhale all at once. “Feels like it’s way too early for the ‘ _we need more communication!’_ talk, hm?”

“Oh, I can do with more communication.” Slowly, Jon felt his back start to relax. This wasn’t going to be his last conversation with Martin. His last memory of Martin wasn’t going to be Martin helping him through a panic attack – or, worse, burning down a library. He leaned to the side until his head rested on Martin’s shoulder. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

Martin made a noise that might’ve been an _‘aw’._ He leaned himself, his cheek pressing against the top of Jon’s hair. “Never again, alright? You talk to me, straight off, if you think something like this will happen again.”

“You’ve got my word.” And Jon believed it, too. Christ, he would try so hard. He couldn’t read the future, but that he was willing to try _had_ to matter, because it was all he had. “I’ll burn the evidence board, if you’d like. Some sort of alternative to a blood pact.”

“I’m a little adverse to burning,” Martin admitted, and Jon felt himself flinch. Hell. _That_ had been an awkward slip of the tongue, hadn’t it? “But I really do not like the evidence board.”

“Creepy to have in a living room?”

“Hm. Just bad décor, honestly.” Christ, the way he could _feel_ the tension melt out of Martin’s shoulders almost made him want to cry. Their conversation had an undertone of awkward tension to it, an implicit _Please-god-let-me-break-this-ice,_ but Jon appreciated it anyway. “You could get a television like the rest of the world.”

“Don’t think I’d get much use out of it. An aquarium, maybe.”

“Oh, _yeah._ I could see that.”

In that moment, Jon meant it. He never wanted to look at that evidence board again. He had investigated enough of both his past life and Martin’s. It had clearly been filled with trauma and fear and … _everything_ that he didn’t want to think about. The idea of a relatively mundane sort of future with Martin in it had boundless appeal. And Jon would be stopped by nothing in order to secure it.

“I’m going to make you something to eat, you haven’t eaten in, like, a day.” Martin finally disentangled himself from the embrace. “Then I do have to get going, okay? I really would like to spend a night in my own flat for once.”

“No, hang on, I can help out a bit. You don’t have to do – “ Jon stood up to his feet, and _Christ,_ his knees weren’t fond of that sudden movement. Not at all. He rubbed at them with a wince.

“Yes, Jonathan, I _do_ have to do that. Sit down. I’ll get your heating pad for your knees out, okay?”

Martin disappeared through the door into the kitchen, and Jon obediently sat back down on the couch. It wasn’t a fairytale. Guilt and shame still prickled in him, snaking between each vertebrae to make an uncomfortable nest in his brain. Jon’s mind was still reeling with ways to ‘make it up to him’, and Martin could very well ask him to cut his own hand off and Jon would have to give it serious consideration.

But he had a chance, and a chance meant everything in the world.


	10. First Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: None

There was no reason why recipes had to be so complicated.

Jon understood the benefits of having a well-stocked spice cabinet, in theory, and it was something he really ought to get behind. To be able to reach in and grab whatever seasonings that he needed, instead of having to make not-one-but- _two-_ trips-to-the-shop in order to get everything for the recipe. Jon had thought that he had got everything, only to turn the page and find three more bullet points of items that he hadn’t considered.

What was the point in all of this elaborate nonsense, anyway? He would bet any amount of money that Martin would appreciate a meal that only required two dishes and a microwave. Oh, hell, this was _Martin_ he was talking about. Jon could push kibble in a bowl at him and Martin would tell him that it smelled delicious.

“Oh, _hell,”_ Jon muttered to himself, leaning against the counter and lightly pressing his thumbs against his eyes. If he wasn’t careful, then he’d rationalize himself right into getting takeaway. And he didn’t want to do that.

Even if there were annoyances in the moment, Jon wanted to make something elaborate. There were candles (unlit, for now) and a red tablecloth that he’d thought to throw over his old pockmarked coffee table. He had passed the florist on trip #2 and genuinely debated on getting some roses for the table, too, but – god, Martin would _definitely_ think he was proposing if he walked into all that.

Which, he wasn’t. The idea didn’t revolt him, but it did fill him with bone-aching anxieties about commitment. Which was silly in and unto itself. Two weeks ago had been their six months anniversary. Martin had given him an anthology of the best science fiction novels of the late 1960s (it was nearly as thick as his head, and _god_ was he excited). Jon had given him a pair of pajamas with the implicit threat that he was going to commit homicide if he ever saw Martin sleeping in jeans again. This had all been conducted two weeks after they had both agreed “not to make a thing of it”.

And they hadn’t! Not really. Yes, Jon had recited poetry to him (and had quietly filed in the back of his mind that poetry was one of Martin’s new interests, he’d been bringing it up recently) and Martin had gotten misty-eyed. And they’d gone out to dinner. And they’d had an excruciatingly simpering heartfelt conversation while laying nose-to-nose with him in bed. And they said they loved one another (a memory that always brought up firework exclamation marks in his mind, even still). But they hadn’t made a _thing_ of it, necessarily.

That Jon was currently in the process of making an exceptionally elaborate dinner for Martin was unrelated. Sort of.

He’d been thinking about it for ages, probably far too early. The thought had first occurred to him about two weeks after the incident at the Magnus Institute, that it really _would_ be easier if Martin started keeping some things at his flat. He would look like a loon if he brought it up then, though. No, instead he had just let the thought snowball in his mind over the months. If anything, he was surprised Martin hadn’t brought it up himself.

Martin admitting that he loved him had been the catalyst. Jon hoped it wasn’t too early – that it didn’t look like he was just reacting to the confession. No, he would be _clear_ about it, that he had been thinking about it for ages. But he wouldn’t admit that it had only been weeks into the relationship when it started, that was madness. Three months in sounded more reasonable, even if it was technically a lie.

They would eat a nice, lovely dinner. They would cuddle on the sofa. Jon wouldn’t let Martin distract him. And then Jon would ask Martin to move in with him.

It would all be very neat and lovely.

Things had been going very well. Jon would call them ‘rocky’ perhaps a week after their argument, but after that … well. They had sailed right along, hadn’t they?

Perhaps not much had changed structurally about their lives. Martin still worked in a job that he didn’t care much for. But, as Martin often said, he didn’t _hate_ it and little stopped him from gossiping with Jon on his phone all day. There’d been some discussion about taking online courses somewhere (“O _h Martin, they’re probably not going to check your GCSEs anyway”),_ and they’d started taking first steps to getting Martin on testosterone again. If Martin was unhappy with any aspect of his life, Jon didn’t hear about it. He wasn’t sure how much that meant – prying anything deeper than surface-level frustrations was like pulling teeth with his boyfriend.

Jon had moved from shelving books at a library to doing research for a small university. It’d been a gradual switch that Jon had been deeply resistant to at every step of the way. At first he’d just been working with a history department to find books for their work, and then he was being told there was a position open. Martin had been the one to really urge him into it, and now Jon had a desk. It was nice. He had put a photo of Martin and himself on it, because certainly that was the right thing to do.

The research scratched the itch for productivity, but – and Jon would not admit this to even Martin – it did not feel quite as compelling. The research into dusty old tomes and literature was not a _provocative_ knowledge, it actually rather wanted itself to be known. And, sometimes, Jon yearned for something slightly more … secret.

He managed to shove those feelings down well enough, however. And the urges now were not as bad as they had been right after. For some time, Jon still slept excessively, still suffered from worst pain than normal, still had paralyzingly intrusive thoughts about the whole matter. They had abated. Jon thought it might have all been a little easier if he’d shared those feelings with Martin, but he also thought that he put the man through enough.

Physically, he’d been improving leaps and bounds. His physician had prescribed some physical therapy exercises, as well as a different medication for pain. Jon had relented and finally gotten a cane, which he used whenever he thought there might be a lot of walking involved. He had far fewer bad days now. He’d also convinced Martin once to lay on his back, and it _had_ cracked so loudly that Martin frantically started to apologize.

There was only one factor that brought Jon some pause. He’d received an email two weeks ago, just before their six-months not-a-thing thing. An email, from ‘G. Barker’.

He hadn’t yet read it. From the notification bar, he’d been able to catch the first few words.

_I want to know -_

And then it cut off. Jon had pulled up the email in his notifications so many times, and then stopping himself, and then debating whether he ought to just delete it altogether, and then wondering what the fuss was all about, _reading_ never hurt anybody.

Eventually, he had decided upon a perfectly reasonable compromise. He was going to tell Martin about it, and together, they would read it. Decide what to do as a singular unit, because whatever it was, it involved Martin’s past, too.

That opened the possibility that Martin would simply shut down the entire idea. It wasn’t a stupid option, either. Prying into their past lives hadn’t exactly ended well the last time, and Martin was more strongly opposed to the idea than he was, and they were _happy_ now. There was little point rocking the boat.

But Martin was also eager to please, perhaps too much so. If this Georgie woman wanted something from them, some sort of closure or _something –_ Jon seriously doubted that Martin wouldn’t give that to her.

What Jon _wanted_ was for Martin to act as his voice of reason. To let him know when he was too close to the edge.

They would approach this as a team. Nothing more, nothing less.

But nothing would be broached tonight on the topic. No, tonight Jon had much more domestic issues in mind, like asking his long-term (was six months the cut-off for long-term? He never had any sense for these sort of things) boyfriend if he wanted to cohabitate. Leave his shoebox of a flat and come live with him and his absurd amounts of bookshelves.

Even if Jon had drawn a pro-con list and the ‘pro’ had a much better advantage, Jon was nevertheless itchy with anxiety. He wasn’t going to call this dinner a bribe, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to remind Martin that he could be a perfectly lovely and desirable boyfriend? On occasion?

Martin _practically_ lived here anyway. There was a section of Jon’s closet taken up by Martin’s work button-downs and his ragged t-shirts, a shower shelf dedicated to his toiletries. Martin had even managed to convince him to get a television for his front room – with the idea that there might be enough room, still, for an aquarium. Jon privately considered that a cat tower would be more space-efficient, and also a more appealing pet overall. Things to consider. He didn’t think he’d ever pet a cat, at least not since he woke up. One could only hope he wasn’t allergic.

He jumped when he heard the doorbell. _Christ,_ got him every time. “Come in!” Jon shouted from where he stood in front of the bubbling pot. Was this considered a rapid boil?

The lock in the door turned and then Martin practically _sprinted in,_ not bothering to lock or even fully _shut_ the door behind him. Before Jon could even turn around, there were thick arms around his stomach and he was being _lifted_ up off of the ground from behind. Instinctively, Jon squealed and brought his legs up like _that_ was going to do much.

“ _You – little – wank!”_ Martin was playfully growing in his ear. “I cannot _believe_ you!”

“Good to see you too.” Jon hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. Frankly, though, his attention was rather taken with how strong Martin’s arms were around him. Had Martin grown stronger, or just more willing to throw his weight around? Martin had squeezed the breath out of him, he felt like, just a touch hoarse when Martin set him back on the ground. “Have I done something unbelievable?”

“ _Mine eye hath painted the painter and hath stelled thy beauty’s form in table of my heart?”_ Martin accused him. Oh, yes, he did know what this was about, actually. Christ, Jon tried and failed to keep a smile from spreading on his face. To combat this, he pressed his hand against his mouth to stifle back any laughter.

“Yes, Martin?” Jon asked innocently. He hoped he didn’t sound like he was about to cry from laughter. “The poem I wrote for you for our six months anniversary?”

“I _knew_ you didn’t. You sod. I _asked_ you, and you gave me those big – those big ‘ _who, me?’_ eyes and said that you came up with it during lunch. Oh my _god._ Shakespeare’s sonnet _fucking_ twenty-four.”

“In my defense, I never thought that you’d believe me. You really thought I would write you a love poem – _much less one_ that includes the phrase ‘hath stelled thy beauty’s form’?”

“I – I - “ Martin’s face was entirely red. “I was a little distracted, _thanks.”_

“Yes, I do seem to remember that.” Martin had been, in a word, lovesick. He usually was, when they were practically nude and entangled in bed together, with Jon’s hands delicately cupping his face. Jon had initially made the off-handed remark ( _of course I wrote it, Martin, that seems like a thing I’d do)_ as a joke, but then Martin’s eyes had grown wide and nearly shattered Jon’s heart with how earnest they were.

(Also, it was very funny to let Martin think he wrote Shakespeare.) “But never think that I didn’t mean every word of it. I just don’t have the originality required for love poetry.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” Martin sighed impatiently. Let down on the floor, he planted a firm kiss against Jon’s cheekbone. “Arse.”

He detached himself from Jon’s side to go back and handle the front door. Every few steps, Martin would call something out in a tone that suggested he was moments away from dissolving into laughter. “ _Deception! Fraud!”_ There, Martin was practically giggling at himself while he locked the door. “ _Liar!”_

Jon supposed he couldn’t judge much. He was giggling, himself, standing there with a spoon in hand. Martin swept back into the kitchen and threw his arms around Jon’s middle. This time, he was not picked up into the air. Martin just gently knocked his nose against Jon’s temple. He even managed to stop his laughing. “I love you,” he whispered.

It still felt strange to say. Not in a bad sense, not in the sense that it was untrue. There was only the sense that it was a little secret between them, a whispered confessional. Lovely, of course – made Jon’s stomach flutter every time – but occasionally overwhelming, as it was. “Funny,” Jon murmured, staring down into the pot. “I love you, too. What a coincidence.”

Martin hummed happily in response, staring down to the small concoction Jon was alchemizing on the stove. “That smells lovely.”

“You have too much faith.”

“I’ll do the dishes after. Thanks for cooking dinner, this all looks fantastic.” A beat passed. “This isn’t some, ah, special occasion that I’ve forgotten about,, is it?”

Bless, a look of concern did pass over Martin’s face. Jon couldn’t help but smirk. “Well, let’s consider, shall we? It’s not my birthday, that’s in October. Obvious reasons, not our anniversary. You don’t have a birthday. No, Martin, I think the mood just struck me.” Or something like that, anyway. How hard was it going to be to ask? _Martin, would you consider moving in with me?_

“How are you _so_ sweet? Honestly. I need to shape up. You’re leaving me in the dust with this romance thing.”

Jon bumped his hip against Martin’s own. _That isn’t burning, is it?_ Jon found a spatula and reached for the fish, flipping it over. It was … dark. But probably fine. And if _all_ else failed, then he’d have a sink full of dishes and Chinese takeaway to look forward to. “I’m glad that I’m exceeding expectations in that regard.” And he was, really. His life was rapidly growing towards normal, and while he understood that being normal wasn’t a checklist – _god,_ it felt good that he could handle a steady relationship.

“Oh! Reminds me. I think I’ve chosen a birthday.”

“Can you do that?”

“Well, I’m certainly going to make my case to some men in suits about that. Think I know the year – I mean, close enough, anyway. And I’ll need to have _some_ date of birth to put on things. I’ve just been making up different ones for every form I get.”

“ _Martin!”_ Jon’s voice was chiding. It seemed like Martin was in an awkward bureaucratic situation every other week. He’d practically become an expert in knowing the right words to say and what strategy to take. A few months ago, Martin had even danced with him to the hold music that they’d been put on for thirty-seven minutes. “What date did you end up choosing, anyway?”

“March 24th.”

Jon frowned. The date didn’t mean anything to him. “Why?”

“ _Well – “_ Although he wasn’t looking at Martin’s face, he nevertheless practically heard the shyness in his voice. “It’s the day that we met.”

Jon heard all of the words individually. He even knew the dictionary definition of all those words. They were one syllable long, for the love of god. And yet it took a few seconds for his brain to supply the necessary feedback about what they all met strung together.

He had hoped that he would have a better reply to it. Instead, all he could get out was: “ _Jeeeeeesus,_ Martin.”

“It’s not too much, you don’t think? Not, like – weird?” At Martin’s obvious nervousness, Jon reached up to give his shoulder a reassuring rub while he thought his words through.

It was hard to conceptualize it, really. The only thing that Jon could think of was, when Martin finalized that date on all his forms and licenses – that was that. That was his birthday. Their meeting would be a part of Martin’s life forever, even if (god forbid) things didn’t work out between them. It was much more permanent than a tattoo, this was a baseline point of knowledge about Martin Blackwood.

Suddenly, asking Martin to move in with him seemed _much_ less daunting.

“It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.” Jon confessed. “And _really_ makes me hope that dinner isn’t crap.”

“ _Shush.”_ Martin swayed next to him, bumping his hip next to Jon’s, as if he were dancing. “It’s not like _that._ It’s just, you know. Whatever happens, meeting you was, like, a formative event in my life.” Martin broke out into a grin. “I’m saying that it would have to be a _really_ crap dinner for me to decide that my birthday was actually, like, Christmas or something.”

Jon make a dramatically stressed showing of stirring the sauce, causing Martin to giggle. “I love you,” Martin sighed out, as if Jon had forgotten in the last five minutes. And Jon had to admit that, given the history for the two of them – well, constant reminders wouldn’t be the _end_ of the world. Lightning could yet strike twice.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” Jon’s voice was breathy, practically a whisper, but Martin’s happy hum confirmed that he heard it anyway. Martin would soon detach himself and go put places and glasses out on the coffee table (they didn’t eat at the dining table, they weren’t eighty). They would have a nice dinner, Jon would ask the question, Martin would say yes, and there would be a generous amount of kissing on the sofa. They would make half-concrete but nevertheless excited plans about packing up Martin’s things and what would need to be done at Jon’s flat. They would go to bed and practically chortle at the idea that it would be _their_ bed at some point in the future. They would sleep, and then it would be tomorrow.

He had no idea whether any of that would happen, but Jon could certainly hope. Whatever yesterdays he had – more than being traumatic, it was _over._ Jon couldn’t ever reclaim it. The thought still gave him sadness, and Jon didn’t know how to begin to process that kind of grief. He figured it would hit him again and again and again, a rain that didn’t know when to stop.

However, he had todays and tomorrows in ample abundance. Fingers crossed, anyway. And they were so much more precious. The feeling of Martin’s hand against his, the light striking and lighting up the hairs on his face just so, the absolute _hurricane_ of emotions a single look of his could produce. They were more than some stilted movie-memory of a man that he was no longer. They were things that Jon could plan for, control, _experience._ Hell, todays and tomorrows gave Jon a _chance_ to make things good.

And Jon was going to savor every single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, y'all. I initially intended this to be released as a week-by-week sorta fic, but gonna be honest - I have two other week-by-weeks in other fandoms and keeping track of three per week seemed like way too much. So have all 50k words at once!
> 
> This fic genuinely just started as chapter one, where they meet at a memory support group, before I realized that I probably had to write the rest of it. Usually for fic I'm more of a 'write what you need to get to the ending you want' sort of person, but here was very much 'I have a beginning, where is it going' sort of deal. 
> 
> Thanks all for reading! And best of luck, as always, with the finale. 😁

**Author's Note:**

> There was a mention in the last few episodes released of MAG that one of the options was Jon losing his entire memory. It activated a sleeper-agent switch in the back of my brain and out came this fic.


End file.
